These last words of Don Quixote gave the gentleman in green a suspicious

idea of his understanding: he had a notion that he must be disordered in

his senses, and was expecting some other proof of it; but, without

entering into farther discourse, Don Quixote desired his companion to

let him know who he was, as he himself had given an account of his life

and situation. To which request the gentleman replied, ‘Sir Knight of

the Rueful Countenance, I am a gentleman born in a village where, if it

pleases God, we shall all dine to-day; my fortune is better than

moderate, and my name Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my time chearfully,

with my wife, my children, and my friends; my usual diversions are

fishing and hunting; but I neither keep hounds nor hawks; all I have are

some decoy-partridges and a good ferret. My library consists of about

some six dozen of Spanish and Latin books; some are books of history,

others of piety; for as to books of chivalry, I have not yet allowed

them to come under my roof: I am more inclined to the reading of profane

than religious authors, if the subjects they treat of are of an innocent

nature, if the stile is engaging, and the incidents affecting and

surprizing: but, indeed, Spain produces mighty few performances of this

sort. I live in terms of good neighbourhood with all about me; sometimes

I go to their houses, sometimes I invite them to mine; my table is neat

and clean, and sufficiently affluent, without extravagance. I slander no

one, nor do I allow backbiters to come near me; my eyes pry not into the

actions of other men, nor have I any impertinent curiosity to know the

secrets of their lives. I go to mass every day, and the poor man

partakes of my substance; I make no ostentation in the good I do, that I

may defend myself against the attacks of hypocrisy and vain-glory, well

knowing, that the best fortified heart is hardly proof against these sly

deceivers. As far as I have an opportunity, I am a reconciler of

differences among my neighbours: I particularly pay my devotions to the

blessed Mother, and have an entire dependance on the mercies of God our

Saviour.’

Sancho had listened with uncommon attention to what the gentleman in

green said; and this discourse seemed to him of such exalted piety and

virtue, that he immediately conceived such a man must be endowed with

the power of working miracles: fully persuaded of the truth of this

supposition, he threw himself off his ass, ran up to the gentleman,

seized his right stirrup, and with a heart overflowing with devotion,

and eyes full of tears, fell a kissing his feet. Which humility, when

the traveller perceived, ‘What is the matter, friend,’ said he; ‘what is

the meaning of these embraces?’—‘Pray let me alone,’ said Sancho; ‘for

in my life before, excepting your worship, did I never know a saint

mounted on horseback.’—‘I have no title to be thought so,’ answered the

gentleman; ‘on the contrary, I am a miserable sinner; but the simplicity

of your behaviour, my friend, shews, that you yourself must be a very

good man.’ Upon this declaration Sancho quitted him, and again remounted

Dapple, having by his behaviour unbended the solemn gravity of his

master into a smile, and increased the wonder of Don Diego.

Don Quixote then made enquiry into the number of children he had,

informing him at the same time, that the ancient sages, who were not

enlightened with the knowledge of the true God, reckoned the gifts of

fortune and nature, abundance of friends and encrease of dutiful

children, as constituting part of the supreme happiness. ‘Sir,’ answered

Don Diego, ‘I have one son; and if I had none, should, peradventure,

think myself happier than I am; not that he is very bad, but because he

does not come up to what I would wish him to be. He is now eighteen

years of age, six of which he has spent at Salamanca, studying Greek and

Latin; and when I would have had him apply to something else, I found

him so dipt in poetry, if that deserves the name of science, that I

could not prevail upon him to take to the study of the law, which was

what I wanted he should do; nor would he apply to divinity, the first

and noblest of all sciences. I was desirous to make him the honour and

ornament of his family, as we live in an age, and under a monarch, where

useful and virtuous learning is so amply recompensed: for what is

learning without virtue; no better than pearls on a dunghill! He will

spend whole days in examining whether such a verse in Homer’s Iliad be

expressed with propriety, whether such an epigram of Martial is to be

construed into a lewd sense or not, and whether such a verse in Virgil

will bear this or that meaning. In a word, these authors, with Horace,

Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus, engross the whole of his time and

conversation. As to the modern authors of his own country, he seems to

have no great relish for them, though, notwithstanding his seeming

disregard, he is now busied in making a kind of commentary upon four

verses, which, I believe, are designed as a subject for a prize in the

schools.’

To this information, the other answered, ‘Signior, children are to be

considered as part of the bowels of the parents, and be they good or

bad, we must treat them as such, and cherish them accordingly. It is

incumbent upon parents to lead them betimes into the paths of decency

and virtue, to instil into them sound principles, and train them up in

Christian discipline, that by these means they may be the stay of their

declining years, and an honour to their own descendants. I am not

against using persuasion to incline them either to the study of this or

that science, but look upon using force as altogether unwarrantable;

more especially as the young gentleman does not study in view of getting

his livelihood, he being so fortunate as to have that secured by

inheritance: then I think he should be indulged in pursuing whatever his

genius or inclination mostly prompts him to; and though in poetry there

is more pleasure than utility, it generally does honour to the person

who has a vein for it. I liken poetry to a young, tender, and beautiful

virgin, whom many other virgins, that is, all the other sciences, are

assiduous to ornament, enrich, and embellish; now as she makes use of

them all, so likewise does she reflect a lustre upon them all. But then

this tender virgin is not to be handled roughly; she is not to be

dragged through the streets, exposed in publick places, or stand as a

prostitute at the gates of palaces. She is a kind of alchemy of such

rare virtue, that whoever knows the nature of her composition may change

her into pure gold of inestimable value: whoever would keep her must

narrowly look after her; she must not be indulged in the indecency of

obscene satire, nor allowed to run into insipid sonnets; and though she

may enjoy the profits arising from heroick poetry, weeping tragedy, or

laughing comedy, yet the muse must not be venal; no buffoons must have

any thing to do with her, and she must be kept sacred from the

unhallowed multitude, who neither know nor esteem those hidden treasures

she carries about her. And think not that by the multitude I only mean

the common rank of men; no, under that class I number all who are

strangers to real knowledge, be they peers or be they princes. But,

whoever is possessed of those qualifications I have been mentioning, and

with them attempts the study and execution of poetry, I say, his name

will be famous and held in veneration wherever politeness extends its

influence. As to what you say of your son’s not esteeming the poetry of

his own country, I don’t think he is quite right in that opinion, and

for this reason: the mighty Homer did not write in Latin, because he was

a Greek; nor Virgil in Greek, for the same reason that he was a Roman;

and, in general, every one of the ancient poets wrote in the language of

his own country, and did not seek for another to clothe the majesty of

his ideas. As this is the case, I think it should be a prevailing maxim

in all countries; nor should we undervalue the German poet for writing

in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for

writing in his; but, perhaps, your son does not dislike Spanish poetry,

but Spanish poets, as being destitute of the knowledge of other

languages or sciences, that might contribute to cultivate, assist, and

enliven their own natural genius; and even this prejudice might be

carried too far; for the maxim that a poet is born with his talent, is

certainly just; that is, a real poet comes forth a poet into the world,

and with this natural endowment, implanted in him by his Creator,

produces, without the help of study or cultivation, such things as

verify that of the poets when they say, “_Est Deus in nobis._” One so

born a poet, if he cultivates his genius by the assistance of art, must

be much better, nay, greatly preferable to him who, without natural

fire, attains to the knowledge of the rules only; for it is obvious,

that as art does not exceed nature, but serves to polish and bring it to

perfection, so art assisting nature, and nature so assisted by art, form

the accomplished poet. To conclude, Signior, my advice is, that your son

should be allowed to follow the bent of his own inclination; and as he

must be already an exceeding good scholar, having mastered the learned

languages, which may be looked upon as having mounted the first steps in

his progress to the seat of the sciences, by the assistance of that

knowledge he will be able, without more help, to climb to the top of

human literature, which as much adorns and sets off a gentleman as a

mitre does a bishop, or the long robe the counsel learned in the law. If

you find him writing satires injurious to private characters, burn his

works and rebuke him; but if he composes discourses, that comprehend for

their subject of satire vice in general, as Horace did with so much

elegance, then commend him: for, though it be unlawful to mark and

single out particular persons, it is allowable to write against

particular vices; for example, to write against envy, or to lash the

envious, and so of others. Here are some poets, indeed, who, rather than

baulk their fancy of saying a smart thing, will risk being sent to the

isles of Pontus. As the manners, so will the verses be; if the former

are chaste, the latter will be so likewise. Writing is the interpreter

of the mind, which will always produce what is consonant to its own

native conceptions; and when kings, and the great men of the earth, once

see this wonderful gift of poetry employed on subjects of wisdom,

virtue, and dignity, they bestow marks of honour, esteem, and

munificence upon the poet; they crown him from the leaves of that tree,

which is proof against the glancing thunderbolt, emblematically

denoting, that such as wear that crown ought to be secure against all

hurt or offence.’

The traveller wondered so much at Don Quixote’s discourse, that he began

to be staggered in his mind, whether he was a madman or not. But as this

conversation did not altogether hit Sancho’s taste, he had, in the midst

of it, gone out of the road, to beg a little milk of some shepherds who

were milking ewes hard by; and the gentleman in green, who seemed very

fond of the good sense and ingenious conversation of Don Quixote, was

going to renew their dialogue, when the Don, suddenly lifting up his

eyes, saw a carriage with the king’s colours meeting them upon the road,

and taking this for some new adventure, called to Sancho to bring his

helmet. Sancho, hearing the voice of his master, left the shepherd in

great hurry, and mounting Dapple, arrived where Don Quixote was, to whom

there happened a very terrible and tremendous adventure.

CHAP. XVII.

WHICH SETS BEFORE THE READER THAT HIGHEST AND MOST EXALTED PINNACLE,

WHICH THE INCREDIBLE MAGNANIMITY OF DON QUIXOTE EVER DID,

OR EVER COULD ARRIVE AT—WITH THE HAPPY ISSUE OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE

LIONS.

The history then proceeds to inform us, that when Don Quixote called

upon Sancho to bring him his helmet, he, Sancho, was deep in bargain

with the shepherds about some curds; and finding himself summoned in

such violent haste by his master, was at a prodigious loss what to do

with them, for he had paid for them, and could not bear the thoughts of

losing his purchase: in this extremity he had recourse to his master’s

helmet, in which he safely stowed them, and hugging himself in this

lucky thought, away he trotted to receive the commands of his lord and

master, who desired him to deliver his helmet; ‘For,’ said he, ‘if I

know aught of adventures, that which I descry yonder will prove such a

one as will oblige me to have recourse to arms.’

Don Diego, upon hearing this declaration, looked about him every where,

but could discover nothing, except a carriage coming towards them, with

two or three flying flags, by which he guessed the carriage might be

loaded with some of the king’s money, and mentioned this observation to

Don Quixote, who minded not what he said, his brain wandering so upon

adventures, that every thing must be one, and nothing but a series of

one adventure upon the back of another; he therefore answered the

gentleman to this effect; ‘Sir, forewarned and fore-armed is half the

day; I am not now to learn that I have enemies of all kinds, visible and

invisible, neither know I the time, the place, the hour, nor under what

appearance they will attack me.’ With these words, turning about, he

demanded his helmet of Sancho; who not having time to disengage the

curds from it, was obliged to deliver it, with that lining in the

inside, to his master, who took it, and without farther examination,

clapped it in a great hurry upon his head, which pressing and squeezing

the curds, the whey began to ooze down his beard; and this circumstance

so startled him, that he called out to Sancho, ‘What can this mean? Is

my skull softening, or my brains melting, or do I sweat from head to

foot? Surely, this I can say, that if I do sweat, it is not through

fear, though I am fully persuaded this will prove a most terrible

adventure. If you have got any thing, let me have it to wipe me; for

this deluge of sweat blinds my eyes.’ Sancho replied not, but gave him a

cloth, and with it sent up his thanks to the Almighty, that his master

had not found out what it was. Don Quixote, after rubbing himself, took

off his helmet, to see what it was that sat so cool upon his head, and,

perceiving something white and clotted, put it to his nose, and snuffed

at it; ‘By the life of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,’ cried he, ‘thou

hast put curds into my helmet, thou traitor, thou ill-bred squire!’ To

which apostrophe, Sancho answered with great unconcern and tranquillity,

‘If they are curds, let me have them to eat; but the devil ought rather

to eat them, for I am sure it must be he who put them there. I offer to

defile your worship’s helmet! in good troth, I can perceive, by the help

of that understanding God has given me, that I am not without my

inchanters too, who are at me, as a sort of member and limb of your

worship; and I’ll be sworn, have put that nastiness there, to instigate

your worship to wrath against me, and stir up your worship to anoint my

ribs in the manner your worship was wont to do. But this time they have

missed their aim I trow, as I can depend upon the just sentence of my

master, who will easily weigh with himself, that I had neither curds,

cream, nor any such stuff; and that, if I had, it was more likely I

should have crammed them into my own guts than put them into his

worship’s helmet.’—‘All this is possible,’ cried Don Quixote: and all

this the other gentleman saw, and saw with astonishment, more especially

when our hero, after having cleaned his head, beard, chops, and helmet,

clapped the latter upon his skull, and fixing himself in his seat, tried

whether or not his sword could be easily drawn; then grasping his spear,

‘Now,’ cried he, ‘happen what will happen, here am I, determined for the

combat, should the prince of the evil spirits set himself in battle

array against me.’

By this time the carriage with the streamers was come up, attended only

by the driver (who rode one of the mules) and a man who sat upon the

fore-part of it. Don Quixote wedged himself directly in their way, and

called out, ‘Whither, my brethren, are you bound? what carriage is this?

what does it contain? what ensigns are those displayed?’ To which

interrogations the waggoner replied, ‘The carriage itself belongs to me,

and within are two savage lions, which the general of Oran sends to

court to his majesty: the streamers are the ensigns of our lord the

king, to shew that what is here contained belongs to the crown.’—‘Are

these lions large?’ answered Don Quixote.—‘So large,’ replied the man,

who sat on the fore-part of the waggon, ‘that lions of a more monstrous

size never came from Barbary into this kingdom. I am their keeper, and

have had several under my charge before now, but never any so big as

they: there is a male and female; the he is in the first cage, and the

female in the other; they are now ravenous with hunger, having had no

food to-day, and therefore I must entreat you to get out of the way, as

we must make haste to the place where they are to be fed.’ To which

intreaty, Don Quixote answered with a half smile, ‘What are your lion

whelps to me, and at this time of day too! are lion whelps brought

against me! I’ll make those who sent them hither—yes, by the holy God!

I’ll make them see whether I am a man to be scared by lions. Come,

honest friend, get off; and as you are their keeper, open the cages and

turn them out; for, in the midst of this plain, will I make the savage

beasts of the wilderness know who Don Quixote de La Mancha is, in

defiance of the inchanters who have sent them against me.’

‘Aha!’ said Don Diego to himself, ‘I think our Knight of the Rueful

Countenance has now given us a pretty incontestable sample of what he

is; these curds have certainly soaked his skull, and suppurated his

brains.’ Then Sancho came up to Diego, and said, ‘For God’s sake,

Signior, take care that my master’s worship does not encounter these

lions, or belike we shall all of us be tore to pieces.’—‘What!’ answered

he, ‘is your master then really so much out of his wits, that you

believe and dread he will engage these savage monsters?’—‘He is not out

of his wits,’ replied Sancho, ‘but prodigious bold.’

‘I’ll make him give over,’ answered the other; then going up to Don

Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cages, he said,

‘Signior, gentlemen of the order of knights-errant ought to go upon

adventures that have a probability of success, not such as are quite

desperate; for that courage which is almost temerity, savours rather of

madness than true fortitude. Besides, these lions do not come with any

hostile design against you; no, they think of nothing less; they are

going to be presented to the king, and as they are on their way to

court, I think they should not be stopped in their journey.’—‘Pray, good

Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you will please to get away from hence,

and look after your ferrets and decoy-partridges, do, and leave every

one to mind his own business: this is my business, and it behoves me to

know whether or not these lions come against me.’ Then turning to the

keeper, ‘Sirrah,’ said he, ‘if you do not immediately open the cages, I

swear by the living God, I will this instant pin you to the place where

you sit.’

The carter seeing the obstinate resolution of this armed phantom, who

addressed him, begged for the sake of charity, he would let him take off

his mules, and get with them out of danger, before the lions were

uncaged, ‘For should my cattle be slain,’ said he, ‘I am undone for

ever, having nothing to depend upon for bread but this cart and these

mules.’—‘Man of little faith,’ said Don Quixote, ‘alight; take off thy

mules, and do what thou wilt; but thou shalt quickly see thou hast

laboured in vain, and that thou mightest have spared thyself this

unnecessary trouble.’

The carter then got off, and unharnessed in great hurry, and the keeper

spoke aloud, ‘I call all present to witness that I am forced against my

will, to open the cages, and let loose the lions; and I here declare,

that this gentleman is chargeable with, and answerable for, all the harm

they shall do, as also for my salary and perquisites over and above. And

now, gentlemen, pray take care of yourselves, and get out of the way;

for, as to me, I know they will do me no harm.’ Don Diego again urged

him to forbear attempting so extravagant an action, alledging it was

tempting of God, to think of going about such a desperate undertaking.

The other replied, that he knew what he did, and Don Diego once more

desired him to think well of what he was about, as he was certain that

he deceived himself. ‘Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you do not care to

be a spectator of what you think will be a tragical adventure, set spurs

to your mare, and provide for your own safety.’ Sancho, upon this

intimation, fell a blubbering, and earnestly besought him not to think

of entering upon this adventure; ‘For, in companion of this,’ said he,

‘the windmills, the terrible adventure of the fulling-mill hammers, nay,

all the exploits your worship has performed during the course of your

life, are but custards and puff-paste. Consider, Sir,’ continued he,

‘that there can be no inchantment in this cage; I myself have peeped

through the cage, and there I saw the claw of a real living lion; and

sure I am, that the beast that owns such a claw must be bigger than a

mountain.’—‘Be he large or small,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘thy fear would

magnify him to the bigness of one half of the globe. Be gone, leave me:

if I die, you know our old agreement; repair to Dulcinea. I say no

more!’ He spoke several other things, which shewed he was determined on

what he was about, and that all attempts to dissuade him were in vain.

Don Diego would willingly have stopped him; but had neither weapons nor

armour equal to the other’s, and, besides, did not think it prudent to

engage with a man who was frantick; for, by this time, he was convinced

that Don Quixote was so in all respects; who still pressing the keeper,

and repeating his threats, Don Diego clapped spurs to his mare, Sancho

applied his heels to Dapple, the carter put forward his mules, and all

endeavoured to get as fast out of the way as they could, before the

beasts were let loose. Sancho deplored the fate of his master, who he

believed was just going to be sacrificed by the lions: he bewailed his

own hard fortune, and cursed the hour when he thought of serving him

again; however, amidst the intenseness of his grief, he ceased not to

punch and jog on his ass, that he might get from the cart as fast as

possible. The keeper seeing that these runaways were now safe at a

sufficient distance, renewed his expostulations with Don Quixote, who

said, ‘I hear you, friend; but give yourself no more trouble with

arguments or entreaties, it will all signify nothing; and therefore I

desire you will make haste.’

While the keeper protracted the time in opening the first grate, Don

Quixote considered with himself, whether he had best alight for the

combat, or continue on the back of Rozinante; and determined, at last,

to fight on foot, lest his steed might take fright at the sight of the

lions. Accordingly, he leaped upon the ground, threw away his lance,

braced his shield, and drew his sword; in which attitude, approaching

with great steadiness, he placed himself just before the cart,

recommending himself, with great devotion, first to the protection of

the Almighty, and then to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso.

[Illustration: Don Quixote Braves the Lions.]

We must observe, that at this place the author of this history breaks

out into pathetick exclamations, expressing himself to this purpose: O

Don Quixote de La Mancha! renowned for fortitude, brave beyond human

expression; thou mirrour, in which all heroes of the earth may

contemplate their own perfections! thou second and other Don Manual de

Leon, glory and ornament of Spanish knights! how shall I find words

worthy to relate this matchless atchievement: by what power of argument

shall I make it gain credit among future generations? for what encomiums

ever so exalted, even beyond the hyperbole, can there be but what thou

deservest? On foot thou stood’st, collected within thy magnanimous self,

with a sword far from being sharp, with a shield far from bright and

shining; there, I say, didst thou stand waiting and expecting two of the

fiercest lions that were ever yet engendered in the dens of Libya. I

want words wherewithal to embellish thy great atchievements: let thy own

exploits, then, be the harbinger of thy praises, O heroick Manchegan!

The author here breaks off his exclamation, and proceeds in the recital

of the history, saying,—

The keeper seeing Don Quixote fixed in this posture, and finding himself

under a necessity of letting loose the he-lion, to avoid the resentment

of this enraged and intrepid hero, flung the door of the first cage

open, where the lion appeared lying, of a monstrous bigness and

terrifying aspect: he immediately turned himself round in the cage, put

out one of his paws, and stretching himself at full length yawned and

gaped with great composure, and then, with a tongue of about half a yard

long, cleaned his face and eyes; after which he thrust his head out of

the cage, and stared around him with eyes like firebrands; a sight

sufficient to have struck a damp into the most intrepid heart: but Don

Quixote only fixed his eyes attentively upon him, wishing for the minute

he would leap out of the cart, that he might engage and cut him in

pieces; to such an unaccountable degree had his frenzy worked up his

disturbed imagination. But the lion, naturally generous, and more

inclinable to be gentle than rough, heeded not his bravadoes or

flourishing: on the contrary, after having looked around him, as we have

observed, turned about, and shewing our hero his backside, with great

composure and tranquillity, laid himself down again to rest; which

circumstance Don Quixote perceiving, ordered the keeper to rouze him by

blows, and oblige him to come forth. ‘Nay, that I wont,’ answered he;

‘for, should I enrage him, he would immediately tear me to pieces: come,

Sir Knight, be contented with what you have done, which is all that can

be expected from any man’s courage, and give over tempting fortune any

more. The door of his cage is open, and he may come forth, or not, as he

pleases; but as he has not come out now, he will not all day. The

intrepidity of your worship’s valour is sufficiently vouched; I

apprehend the bravery of no combatant needs do more than challenge his

adversary, and await him in the field; and if the enemy won’t meet him,

the imputation of cowardice lies with him, and the crown of victory

devolves upon the other.’—‘You say true,’ said Don Quixote; ‘shut the

door, my friend, and let me have, under your hand, in the best manner

you are able to draw it, a certificate of what you have now seen; for I

think it is highly fitting mankind should know that you opened the

lion’s cage; that I waited for him, and he came not out; and that I

waited for him again, and he came not out, and that again he laid

himself down. I am not bound to do any more; so inchantments avaunt, and

God prosper truth, justice, and noble chivalry! shut the door therefore,

and I will wave a signal for those who have run off to return, and have

an account of this action from your own mouth.’

The keeper obeyed; and Don Quixote clapping upon the point of his lance

the cloth Sancho had given him to wipe off the curds, called out to them

who were still pursuing their flight, and at every step, all in a body,

turning about their heads, and Don Diego leading them on; but Sancho

chancing to espy the signal of the linen cloth, ‘I’ll be bound to be

crucified,’ said he, ‘if my master has not got the better of the lions;

for he now calls to us.’ They all stopped, and perceived it was Don

Quixote who made the sign; upon which the violence of their terrors

somewhat abated, and they approached nearer and nearer by degrees, till

they could distinctly hear the voice of Don Quixote calling to them; at

last they came back to the cart, and Don Quixote said to the carter,

‘Harness your mules again, my friend, and go on in your journey; and,

Sancho, give him and the keeper two crowns of gold, as a recompence for

the time I have detained them.’—‘That I will most willingly do; but

where are the lions, dead or alive?’ Then the keeper very

circumstantially, and dividing his discourse with great propriety, gave

an account of the issue of this adventure, exaggerating with all his

might, and all the power of rhetorick he could muster up, the courage of

Don Quixote: ‘At sight of whom,’ said he, ‘the lion, overawed, would

not, or rather durst not, venture out of the cage, though I held the

door open a considerable time; and that, upon remonstrating to the great

knight, that it was tempting of God to provoke the lion so far as to

oblige him to come out by force, as he wanted him to have done, and was

going to make him do whether he would or not, his honour had suffered

the cage-door to be shut.’—‘Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what dost thou

think now; can inchantments avail aught against true courage? they may,

indeed, and with ease, stand in the way of my good fortune; but of

valour and resolution they never can deprive me.’ Sancho gave the crowns

to the people; the carter harnessed his mules, and the keeper kissed Don

Quixote’s hand for his liberality, and promised, when he arrived at

court, he would give an account of this heroick atchievement to his

majesty himself. ‘Should the king,’ said Don Quixote, ‘perchance enquire

who performed it, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions; for I am

determined, that, from this time forward, the title I have been hitherto

distinguished by, of Knight of the Rueful Countenance, shall be changed,

bartered, and sunk, into that of Knight of the Lions; and in this

alteration I imitate the example of knights-errant of old, who, as they

pleased, altered their designations as it best suited their purposes.’

The carriage went forward, Don Quixote, Sancho, and the traveller in

green, pursued their journey; and during all this time, Don Diego de

Miranda was so attentive to remark and observe the actions of Don

Quixote, that he had not opened his mouth; but looked upon him as a man

whose good sense was blended with a strange sort of madness: the reason

was, he knew as yet nothing of the first part of his history; had he

read that, his amazement at the knight’s words and actions would have

vanished, as it would have cleared up to him the nature of his frenzy;

but as he knew not that, he was at times divided in his opinion,

sometimes believing him in his senses, and at other times thinking him

frantick; because what he spoke was sensible, consistent, and genteelly

expressed; but his actions discovered all the symptoms of wildness,

folly, and temerity. ‘For what greater sign of disorder,’ said he to

himself, ‘can there be, than for a man to clap on a helmet full of

curds, and then take it into his head that some magician had liquified

his skull; and what more certain proof of foolhardiness and wild frenzy,

than for a person, in spite of all that can be said to him, to resolve

to engage lions?’

Don Quixote interrupted these reflections and soliloquy of his

fellow-traveller, by saying, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, I don’t

doubt but that in your judgment I must pass for an extravagant madman;

and, indeed, no wonder; for, to be sure, my actions would seem to

declare me such: but, at the same time, I must beg leave to say to you,

that I am not so disordered, or so bereft of understanding, as to you I

may have seemed. The gay cavalier, who in burnished armour, before the

ladies, prances over the lists, makes a gallant appearance! the

adventurous knight too shews off to great advantage, when in the midst

of the spacious square, in view of his prince, he transfixes the furious

bull. And a noble appearance make those knights, who, in military

exercises, or such like, are the life, spirit, and even honour of their

prince’s court. But a much more noble figure than all these makes the

knight-errant, who, in the solitudes of the desart, through the almost

impervious passages of the forest, and over the craggy mountains, goes

in quest of perilous adventures, to bring them to a successful issue,

and that only to obtain glory, honour, and an immortal name. A

knight-errant, I say, makes a more glorious appearance, when he assists

the widow in some solitary plain, than the courtier knight, when he

lavishes his gallantry on a town-lady. All cavaliers have their

different spheres, in which they act; let the courtier pay his

attendance to the ladies, adorn the court of his prince with the

splendor of his equipage, entertain gentlemen of inferior fortunes with

the hospitality of his sumptuous table; let him propose matches of

different exercise, and direct the justs and tournaments; let him shew

himself splendid, liberal, and munificent; and, above all, approve

himself a good Christian: in acting thus, he will discharge the duties

that belong to him. But for the knight-errant, let him explore the most

hidden recesses of the universe, plunge into the perplexities of the

labyrinths; let him, at all times, not be afraid of even

impossibilities; in the barren, wasteful wilderness, let him defy the

scorching rays of the solstitial sun, and the piercing chillings of the

nipping frost. Lions must not frighten him, phantoms must not terrify

him, nor dragons dismay him; for, in searching after such, engaging with

and getting the better of all difficulties, consists his true and proper

occupation. It being my fortune, then, to be of this last order, I

cannot, consistent with that, avoid engaging in whatever I deem to be

part of the duty of my calling; and for these reasons, though I knew,

that encountering the lions was in itself an act of the greatest

temerity, yet it immediately belonged to my profession: I am very

sensible that true fortitude is placed between the two extremes of

cowardice and fool-hardiness; but then, it is better valour should mount

even to an over-daring hardiness, than be debased to pusillanimity; for,

as the prodigal is more likely to become truly generous than the miser,

so will the over-courageous sooner be brought to true valour, than the

coward to be courageous at all; and in undertaking adventures, I assure

you, Don Diego, it is much better to overdo than underdo, and much

better does it sound in the ear of him to whom it is related, that a

knight is daring and presumptuous, than that he is pusillanimous and

faint-hearted.’

‘Signior Don Quixote,’ answered Diego, ‘I think all you have said is

consonant to the rule of right reason; and I am of opinion, that if the

laws and statutes of true chivalry were lost, they would be found

deposited and faithfully recorded in your breast: but if you please, we

will put on, for it grows late; let us get towards my house and village,

that you may have some rest, and taste of some refreshment after your

late fatigue, which, if it does not weary the body, must be heavy upon

the mind, the labours of which often affect the body likewise.’—‘I

accept of your invitation, Don Diego,’ said the other, ‘as a favour and

mark of politeness.’ And hastening forward a little quicker than they

had done before, they arrived about two in the afternoon at the

habitation of Diego, on whom Don Quixote bestowed the appellation of the

Knight of the Green Surtout.

END OF BOOK I. PART II.

BOOK II.

CHAP. I.

OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE

AT THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GREEN SURTOUT—WITH OTHER

OUT-OF-THE-WAY MATTERS.

Don Quixote found that Diego’s house, like the houses of most country

gentlemen, was large and roomy, with the arms of the family over the

great gates, cut out in rough stone; the buttery was in the yard, the

cellar was under the porch, and around were placed divers jars, which

jars being of the manufactory of Toboso, recalled the memory of the

metamorphosed and inchanted Dulcinea; upon which, without reflecting

what he said, or before whom he poured out his sighs and tears: ‘O

dearest pledges,’ said he, ‘which now I find in bitterness of sorrow,

but sweet and ravishing when Heaven’s high will ordained it so. O jars

of Toboso, which have recalled into my mind the dear idea of my greatest

sorrow!’ This exclamation was overheard by the young poet, Diego’s son;

who, along with his mother, had come down to receive Don Quixote. Both

mother and son were struck with his uncouth figure, and he, alighting

from Rozinante, with great good breeding, begged leave to kiss the

lady’s hand. To which intreaty Don Diego added, ‘Madam, receive with

your usual politeness, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, knight-errant,

whom I here introduce to you as a gentleman of the brightest parts and

most intrepid courage of any in the world.’ Donna Christina (for that

was the lady’s name) received him with all the marks of respect and

esteem, and Don Quixote overpaid them in polite and mannerly

acknowledgments; the same kind of intercourse passed between him and the

young scholar, whom he took by his conversation to be a gentleman of

vivacity and acuteness.

The author here minutely describes Don Diego’s house, gives an inventory

of the furniture usually contained in the house of a rich country

gentleman: but the translators of this history have thought it

adviseable not to mention these and such other particular matters, as

being rather foreign from the main scope of this history, in which truth

has more energy than needless and languid digressions.

Don Quixote was conducted into a hall, where Sancho disarmed him; after

which, he remained in his other accoutrements, a pair of wide walloon

breeches, and a shamoy-leather doublet, stained with the rust of his

armour; his band was collegian, neither starched nor laced; his buskins

of the colour of dates, and his shoes of waxed leather; he girded upon

his thigh his trusty sword, which hung at a belt of seal’s skin, for it

is believed he had been for some years troubled with an imbecility in

his loins; and over all these was a long cloak of good grey cloth; but,

before he stirred any farther, he applied to his face five or six

pitchers (the precise number not being exactly ascertained) of fair

water, which, nevertheless, still ran off exhibiting a whey colour; and

it was undoubtedly owing to the irregular appetite of Sancho, and his

having made the bargain for these nasty curds, that his master was now

scoured so white and so clean. In this equipment, as here described, and

with a gallant air and address, Don Quixote walked into another hall,

where the young gentleman of the house was waiting to receive and

entertain him, till dinner should be got ready; for as to the Lady Donna

Christina, she was busy in ordering matters so, upon the arrival of this

noble guest, as to let it be seen she knew what reception to give those

who came to visit under her roof.

While Don Quixote was unarming, Don Lorenzo (that was the name of

Diego’s son) took the opportunity of that leisure time to ask his

father, who that knight was he had brought home to them; ‘For,’ said he,

‘his name and his uncouth figure, and your telling us, at the same time,

that he is a knight-errant, puzzle both my mother and me

prodigiously.’—‘I know not,’ said Don Diego, ‘what answer to make you;

all I can say is, I never saw a madman act more frantickly, and have

heard him talk so very sensibly, as gave the lye to all his actions: but

I would have you enter into conversation with him, and sound the depth

of his understanding; you have sense enough, and therefore I would have

you form a judgment of him according to your own observation; to say the

truth, I myself am more inclined to believe him distracted than

otherwise.’

Upon this intimation, Don Lorenzo went to entertain Don Quixote, as we

have mentioned; who, among other discourse, said to Lorenzo, ‘Signior

Don Diego de Miranda, your father has been pleased to inform me a little

of your great genius and good judgment, and particularly that you are a

great poet.’—‘A poet, in some sense, I may be,’ said Lorenzo; ‘but a

great one did I never so much as dare even in my own imagination to

think myself. True it is, I am a little fond of poetry, and of reading

the good poets; but don’t at all for that reason merit the title my

father is pleased to bestow upon me.’—‘I love your reserve,’ said Don

Quixote: ‘for poets are usually far removed from modesty, each thinking

himself the greatest in the world.’—‘No rule holds universally,’

answered Lorenzo, ‘and there may be one who is really a great poet, and

yet does not think himself so.’—‘There must be very few such,’ answered

the other; ‘but pray, Sir,’ continued he, ‘what verses are those you are

about, which your father says make you so anxious and studious? for, if

it be commenting upon some theme, I know somewhat of the art of

paraphrasing, and should be glad to see what your performance is; and if

they are designed as a poetical prize, let me advise you to obtain the

second, for the first is decreed in view of interest, or in favour of

the great quality of some person; but merit carries the second: so that,

according to the general practice of our universities, the third becomes

the second, and the first the third; but, notwithstanding this

acceptation, the name of the first makes a great shew.’—‘So far,

surely,’ said Lorenzo to himself, ‘this gentleman shews no signs of a

disturbed understanding; but we’ll go on.—Your worship, I presume, has

been long at the schools; pray, Sir, what sciences have you addicted

yourself to?’—‘That of knight-errantry,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘a science

equally sublime as your poetry; and, in my humble opinion, even mounted

a few steps above it.’—‘That science,’ answered Lorenzo, ‘I am hitherto

a stranger to; it has not yet come within the extent of my

knowledge.’—‘It is a science,’ answered the other, ‘that includes in

itself virtually, most, if not all the other sciences in the world; for

he who professes it must be a civilian, and know the laws both of

distributive and communicative justice, to determine, with equity and

propriety, what lawfully and properly belongs to every individual: he

must be a good divine and casuist, that he may, with clearness and

precision, defend the principles of the Christian faith, which he

professes, as often as he shall be required so to do: he ought to be a

physician, and particularly a botanist, that, in the midst of desarts

and wildernesses, he may know those herbs that are of efficacy in curing

wounds; for a knight-errant cannot at every turn have recourse to a

surgeon. He ought to be an astronomer, to distinguish by the stars the

time of the night, together with the climate and part of the globe on

which he chances to be: he must be learned in the mathematicks, for

which he will frequently have occasion; and besides being adorned with

all the theological and cardinal virtues, he ought to descend to other

minute branches of science. I say, for example, he must know how to swim

like an herring, to shoe an horse, to mend a saddle and bridle; and,

returning to what we have observed above, he must preserve his fealty to

God and his mistress; he must be chaste in thought, decent in speech,

liberal in action, valiant in exploits, patient in toil, charitable with

the needy; and finally, an asserter of truth, even though the defence of

it should cost him his life. Of all these great and small qualities is a

good knight-errant composed; so that Signior Don Lorenzo may judge,

whether it be a snivelling science which is learned and professed by a

knight-errant: and whether it may not be compared with the sublimest

which are taught in colleges and schools.’—‘If that be the case,’

replied Don Lorenzo, ‘I affirm, that it has the advantage over all

others.’—‘How!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case!’—‘What I would

say,’ resumed Lorenzo, ‘is, that I doubt whether there ever were or are

knights-errants adorned with so many virtues.’—‘I have often said what I

am now going to repeat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the greatest part

of the world believes there never were knights-errant; and, in my

opinion, if Heaven does not work a miracle to prove that they both did

and do exist, whatever trouble may be taken will fail of success, as I

know by repeated experience. I will not, therefore, spend time at

present, in refuting and rectifying the error in which you and many

others are involved; but my intention is to pray that Heaven will

extricate you from your mistake, and give you to understand how

advantageous and necessary knights-errant have been to the world in past

ages, and how useful they might be to the present, were it the custom to

solicit their assistance: but, now, for the sins of mankind, idleness,

sloth, gluttony, and extravagance, prevail and triumph.’ Here Don

Lorenzo said within himself, ‘Now hath our guest given us the slip; but,

nevertheless, he is a whimsical madman, and I should be an idle fool, if

I thought otherwise.’

In this place their discourse was interrupted by a call to table; and

Don Diego asked his son, what he had fairly extracted from the genius of

his guest. To this question he replied, ‘All the best physicians and

writers that the world contains, will not extract him fairly from the

blotted sheet of his madness; but he is a party-coloured maniack, full

of lucid intervals.’ They sat down to eat, and their repast was such as

Don Diego had said upon the road he was wont to bestow upon his friends

whom he invited, neat, plentiful, and savoury; but what yielded more

satisfaction to Don Quixote, was the wonderful silence that prevailed

over the whole house, which in this particular resembled a monastery of

Carthusians.

The cloth being removed, grace said, and hands washed, Don Quixote

earnestly desired that Don Lorenzo would repeat the verses designed for

the literary contest; and the young gentleman answered, ‘Rather than

appear one of those authors, who when they are requested to rehearse

their works, refuse to grant the favour, and on the other hand, disgorge

them upon those who have no inclination to hear them; I will repeat my

gloss, from which I expect no reward, as I composed it solely with a

view to exercise my genius.’—‘It was the opinion of an ingenious friend

of mine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that no man ought to fatigue himself in

glossing upon verses; because, as he observed, the gloss could never

come up to the text; and very often, or indeed almost always, the gloss

was foreign to the original proposition; besides, the laws of the gloss

were extremely narrow, restricting the paraphraser from the use of

interrogations; and, “Said he,” or, “I will say;” as well as from

changing verbs into nouns, and altering the sentiment; with other ties

and shackles incurred by those who try their fortune in this way, as you

yourself undoubtedly know.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ cried Don

Lorenzo, ‘I am very desirous of intrapping your worship in false Latin;

but it is not in my power, for you slip through my fingers like an

eel.’—‘I do not know,’ answered the knight, ‘what you mean by saying I

slip through your fingers.’—‘I will explain myself some other time,’

replied Don Lorenzo; ‘mean-while, your worship will be pleased to hear

the paraphrase and the text, which run thus—

‘THE TEXT.

‘Could I the moments past renew,

Though fate should other joys deny;

Or bring the future scenes to view

In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie.

‘THE GLOSS.

‘As all things perish and decay;

So did that happiness I mourn,

On silent pinion fleet away;

Ah! never—never to return.

At Fortune’s feet forlorn I lie:

Would she again propitious strew

Her favours, who more blest than I,

_Could I the moments past renew_!

‘No pleasure, palm, or wreathe I claim,

No wealth or triumph seek to find;

For all my wish, and all my aim,

Is to retrieve my peace of mind.

Ah, Fortune! thy returning smile

Would change to bliss my destiny,

And ev’ry gloomy thought beguile,

_Though fate should other joys deny_.

‘Fond wish! impossible and vain;

No pow’r on this terrestrial ball

Can Time’s unwearied foot detain,

Or his accomplish’d flight recall.

He forward flies, nor looks behind;

And those miscarriage will pursue,

Who hope this fugitive to bind,

_Or bring the future scenes to view_.

‘Perplex’d with hopes and fears I live,

Tho’ death at once would ease my pain;

What folly, then, for me to grieve,

Who can that easy cure obtain?

No! yet a wiser course I’ll steer,

Resolv’d my fortune still to try,

Until those happier days appear,

_In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie_.’

Don Lorenzo no sooner concluded his paraphrase, than Don Quixote

starting up, took the young gentleman by the right-hand, and raising his

voice even almost to a halloo, pronounced, ‘Now, by the Heaven of

heavens! noble youth, you are the best poet in the world, and deserve to

be crowned with laurel, not by Cyprus or Gaeta, as an author said, whom

God pardon, but by the academy of Athens, did it now subsist, and by

those of Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca, which are still in being. Heaven

grant, that those judges who deny you the first prize, may be transfixed

by the arrows of Apollo, and that the Muses may never deign to cross the

thresholds of their doors. Signior, let me hear, if you please, some of

your more majestick verses, that I may be thoroughly acquainted with the

pulse of your admirable genius.’ Is it not diverting to observe, that

Don Lorenzo was pleased with the applause of Don Quixote, although he

considered him as a madman? O influence of flattery, how far dost thou

extend! and how unlimited are the limits of thy agreeable jurisdiction!

This truth is verified in the behaviour of Lorenzo; who, in compliance

with the desire and intreaty of the knight, repeated this sonnet, on the

fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.

SONNET.

Fair Thisbe’s charms what bulwarks could withstand!

They pierc’d e’en to her gallant lover’s soul;

And Cupid hasten’d from the Cyprian strand,

To view the narrow paths by which they stole.

Here silence spoke; and through that narrow breach,

Which e’en the timid voice durst not essay,

Th’ intrepid souls to perfect union stretch:

Inspir’d, impower’d, by love’s almighty sway.

Th’ ill-fated pair to death untimely came,

With flow’ry pleasure’s tempting bait intic’d:

By the same poignard, monument, and fame,

At once destroy’d, enclos’d, immortaliz’d.

‘Blessed be God!’ cried Don Quixote, when he had heard the sonnet of Don

Lorenzo, ‘that amidst the infinite number of consumptive poets that now

exist, I have found one consummate, as your worship has plainly evinced

yourself, by the art and execution of those stanzas.’

The knight was sumptuously regaled in the house of Don Diego, for the

space of four days; at the expiration of which he thanked his

entertainer for the noble treatment he had received from his

hospitality, and begged leave to depart; for as it did not become

knights-errant to devote much time to ease and banquetting, he was

desirous of fulfilling the duty of his profession in seeking adventures,

with which he understood that country abounded, and in which he hoped to

employ the time till the day of the tournament of Saragossa, whither he

was bound; but, first of all, he was resolved to enter the cave of

Montesinos, about which so many strange stories were recounted all over

that neighbourhood, that he might investigate and discover the origin

and real springs of the seven lakes of Ruydera. Don Diego and his son

applauded the glorious design, and desired he would supply himself with

whatever their house or fortune could afford; for they would, with the

utmost good-will, perform that service, which they equally owed to his

personal valour and honourable profession. At length arrived the day of

his departure, as joyful to the knight as dismal and unfortunate to

Sancho Panza, who had lived so much at his ease amidst the plenty of Don

Diego’s house, that he could not without reluctance return to the hunger

that prevails in dreary forests, and to the poverty of his ill provided

bags, which, however, he now took care to fill and stuff with what he

thought most necessary for his occasions.

At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don Lorenzo, ‘I know not,’

said he, ‘whether I have already told your worship, but if I have, let

me now repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to take the

shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible summit of the temple of

fame, you have no more to do, but to leave on one side the path of

poetry, which is pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry,

which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct you to the

throne of empire, in the turning of a straw.’ With this advice did the

knight, as it were, sum up the process of his madness; which, however,

was still more manifest in this addition: ‘Heaven knows what pleasure I

should feel in the company and association of Don Lorenzo, whom I would

teach, by my own example, to spare the fallen, and trample the haughty

under foot; virtues annexed to the order I profess: but as his tender

years do not require such tutorage, nor would his laudable exercises

permit him to pursue my steps, I shall content myself with assuring his

worship, that being a poet, he may certainly acquire renown, if he will

conduct himself rather by the opinion of others, than his own; for no

parent ever thought his own off-spring ugly, and this prejudice is still

more strong towards the children of the understanding.’

Both father and son admired anew the strange medley of Don Quixote’s

discourse, in which so much discretion and madness were jumbled

together; and were astonished at the wilfulness and obstinacy with which

he was so wholly bent upon the search of his misadventurous adventures,

that constituted the very aim of all his desires. Nevertheless, they

repeated their offers of service and civility, and with the good leave

of the lady of the castle, Don Quixote and Sancho set out on Rozinante

and Dapple.

CHAP. II.

IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD—WITH OTHER TRULY DIVERTING

INCIDENTS.

A little way Don Quixote had travelled from the habitation of Don Diego,

when he was joined by two persons dressed like ecclesiasticks, or

students, and a couple of labouring men mounted upon asses; behind one

of the students was a bundle wrapped up in green buckram, seemingly

consisting of some linen and two pair of coarse thread stockings; while

the other was encumbered with nothing but a couple of new black

fencing-foils, with their buttons. The countrymen carried other things,

which discovered and gave notice, that they were on their return from

some great town, where they had made a purchase, and were bringing it

home to their own village; and they, as well as the students, were

seized with that admiration which was incident to all those who for the

first time beheld Don Quixote; indeed, they burned with curiosity to

know what sort of a creature he was, so different in appearance from

other men.

The knight saluted them courteously, and understanding their road was

the same route that he designed to follow, made a proffer of his

company, at the same time begging they would slacken their pace, as the

beasts travelled faster than his horse. In order to facilitate their

compliance with his request, he briefly told them who he was, made them

acquainted with his office and profession, which was chivalry, and

observed that he was going in quest of adventures, through all parts of

the world; giving them to understand, that his proper name was Don

Quixote de La Mancha, and his appellative the Knight of the Lions.

All this information was Greek or gibberish to the countrymen, but not

to the students, who immediately discovered the weakness of Don

Quixote’s brain; nevertheless, they beheld him with admiration, and one

of them, in a respectful manner accosted him thus: ‘If your worship, Sir

Knight, follows no determined road, as those who go in quest of

adventures seldom do, be so good as to accompany us, and you will be an

eye-witness of one of the most splendid and opulent weddings that ever

was celebrated in La Mancha, or in many leagues around.’

When Don Quixote asked if it was the marriage of any prince, which he so

highly extolled, the other replied, ‘It is no other than the bridal of a

farmer and a country maid; he the richest of all this neighbourhood, and

she the comeliest that ever man beheld. The preparations are new and

extraordinary; for the marriage is to be celebrated in a meadow

adjoining to the village of the bride who, by way of excellency, is

called Quiteria the Beautiful, and the bridegroom is known by the

appellation of Camacho the Rich; she is but eighteen, and he turned of

twenty, to that they are extremely well matched; though some curious

persons, who remember all the pedigrees in the world, are pleased to

say, that her family has in that respect the advantage of Camacho’s: but

now-a-days these circumstances are altogether overlooked; for wealth is

able to repair a number of flaws. In a word, Camacho is liberal, and has

taken it in his head to overshadow and cover the whole meadow in such a

manner, that the sun will find some difficulty in penetrating, so as to

visit the verdant plants with which the ground is adorned. He has

likewise bespoke choice dancers, both with swords and morrice-bells; for

there are people in the village who can jingle and snap to perfection;

not to mention your shoe-slappers, a power of whom are summoned to the

nuptials: but none of those things I have mentioned, or of a great many

circumstances I have left untold, are likely to render the marriage so

memorable as the behaviour which is on this occasion expected from the

rejected Basilius.

‘This Basilius is a neighbouring swain, and townsman of Quiteria, and

there is nothing but a partition wall between his house and that of her

parents, whence Cupid took occasion to renew the long forgotten loves of

Pyramus and Thisbe, for Basilius became enamoured of Quiteria, even from

his tender years, and she smiled upon his passion with all manner of

honourable indulgence; insomuch that the love of the two children,

Basilius and Quiteria, furnished entertainment and discourse for the

whole village. As their age increased, Quiteria’s father resolved to

forbid Basilius the usual access he had to his house; and, to free

himself from all sorts of jealousy and suspicion, proposed a match

between his daughter and the rich Camacho, thinking it would not be so

well to give her away to Basilius, to whom fortune had not been so kind

as nature; though, to tell the truth, without envy or affection, he is

the most active young man we know, an expert pitcher of the bar, an

excellent wrestler, and great judge of hand-ball: he runs like a deer,

leaps nimbler than a goat, plays at nine-pins as if he used inchantment,

sings like a sky lark, touches the guittar so as to make it perfectly

speak, and handles a foil like the best fencer in the world.’—‘For that

sole accomplishment,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘the young man deserves not

only to be married to the beautiful Quiteria, but even to Queen Ginebra

herself, were she now alive, in spite of Sir Lancelot, and all those who

should endeavour to oppose the match.’—‘Let my wife alone for that,’

said Sancho Panza, who had hitherto travelled in silent attention; ‘she,

good woman, would have every body match with his equal, sticking to the

old proverb, that says, Let every goose a gander chuse. What I would

willingly see is the marriage of this worthy Basilius; for he has

already got my good-will, with that same lady Quiteria; and God grant

them peace and plenty, and rest their souls in heaven—[his meaning was

quite the reverse]—who prevent lovers from marrying according to their

inclinations.’—‘If that was always the case,’ replied Don Quixote,

‘parents would be deprived of that election and jurisdiction they

possess, to marry their children when and how they shall think proper;

and if every daughter was at liberty to indulge her own inclination in

the choice of an husband, one would perhaps chuse her father’s servant,

and another place her affection upon some gaudy coxcomb, whom she might

chance to see passing along the street, even though he should be a

disorderly ruffian: for love and affection easily blind the eyes of the

understanding, which are so necessary towards the settlement of one’s

condition in life; and as we are apt to commit very important mistakes

in the article of matrimony, it requires great caution, as well as the

particular favour of Heaven, to succeed in the choice of a wife. A

prudent man, who is resolved to undertake a long journey, will, before

he sets out, endeavour to find a safe, quiet, and agreeable

fellow-traveller. Then why should not the same pains be taken by the man

who is going to travel through the whole journey of life? especially in

the choice of a companion for bed, board, and every other purpose for

which the wife is subservient to the husband; a man’s own wedded wife is

not like a commodity which being once bought may be bartered, exchanged,

or returned, but is an inseparable appendage that lasts for life.

‘Marriage is a noose, into which if the neck should happen to slip, it

becomes inexplicable as the Gordian knot, and cannot be undone till cut

asunder by the scythe of death. Much more could I add upon this subject,

if I were not prevented by the desire I have to know whether Mr.

Licentiate has any thing farther to entertain us with, relative to the

history of Basilius.’ To this hint the other (call him scholar,

batchelor, or licentiate) replied, ‘I have not any thing material to

add, but that from the time he understood Quiteria was to be married to

Camacho the Rich, he was never seen to smile, or heard to speak

consistently: he is thoughtful and melancholy, talks to himself; all

which are undoubtedly symptoms of a disordered mind. He scarce either

eats or sleeps; and what little he does eat is fruit; when he sleeps at

all it is upon the bare ground, and in the open air, like the beasts of

the field. He every now and then looks up to heaven; at other times,

like one stupid, fixes his eyes on the ground, and seems as if he was a

cloathed statue, with the drapery flowing to the gales of the wind: in a

word, he gives such indications of a fatal passion, that we believe for

certain, when Quiteria to-morrow pronounces the Word “Yes,” she will in

that seal the sentence of his death.’

‘God will order things better,’ said Sancho, ‘for he inflicts the wound,

and will also perform the cure. No one knows what may happen; there are

a great many hours between this and to-morrow, and in one hour, even in

a moment, down comes the house; I have myself seen sun-shine and rain at

the same time; a man goes to bed well at night, but cannot bestir

himself next morning. Let me know, the best of ye, if any man can brag

of having put a spoke in fortune’s wheel? No one, to be sure; and

between the Yes and No of a woman, I would not venture to thrust the

point of a pin, and that for a weighty reason, because there would-not

be room for it; if you will only allow me one thing, that Quiteria loves

Basilius, I’ll yet engage to give him a wallet-full of good-luck; for I

have been told, that love wears a pair of spectacles, which spectacles

make copper look like gold, and poverty appear to be riches, and specks

in the eyes to seem pearls.’—‘A curse on thee!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what

is it thou wouldst be at! once thou art set in to stringing thy

proverbs, none but Judas, with whom wish thou wert, can have patience to

hear thee out! Say, animal, what knowest thou about spokes or wheels, or

any other thing whatsoever?’—‘O! since you do not understand me,’

answered the squire, ‘no wonder you think it nonsense what I say; but

that signifies nothing: I understand myself, nor have I said many

nonsensical things yet, only your worship always plays the cricket upon

my words and actions.’—‘God confound thee, thou confounder of all

language!’ said Don Quixote. ‘Cricket! I suppose thou meanest

critick.’—‘As to that matter, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘be not too severe upon

me; you know I was neither bred at court, nor studied at Salamanca, to

know when I am right in the letter of a word; and as I hope for mercy

from God, I think it unreasonable to expect that, the Sayagues[154]

should speak in the same manner as the Toledans; though, for that

matter, there are Toledans who are not more nice than other folks at the

work of speaking properly.’—‘Very true,’ said the licentiate, ‘for how

should a man, whose business is in the tan yards, and in the

Zocodover[155], speak so good language as they who do nothing but walk

from morning to night in the cloysters of the cathedral? and yet they

are all Toledans; on the other hand, purity, propriety, elegance, and

perspicuity, are to be found among polite people of sense; though they

be natives of Majalahonda; I say people of sense, because so great a

number of people are not so, and sense is the foundation of good

language, assisted by custom and use. I must tell you, gentlemen, it has

pleased God, for my sins, that I have studied the canon-law at

Salamanca, and I pique myself a little on being able to converse in

clear, easy, and expressive language.’—‘If you had not piqued yourself

more upon your dexterity at these good-for-nothing foils you carry about

with you, than upon your knowledge in languages, instead of lagging the

hindmost, you might have been at the head of your class,’ said the other

student. ‘I tell you, Mr. Batchelor, that you are the most prejudiced

man in the world, in that respect, for treating dexterity at the sword

as a matter of no signification.’—‘It is no prejudice with me, it is a

confirmed opinion and truth,’ replied Corchuelo; ‘and if you please to

make the experiment, I will convince you. You carry foils now along with

you, and an opportunity offers; I’ll shew you that I have nerves and

strength, backed with such courage as will prove sufficient to

demonstrate to you that my opinion is not the effect of prejudice; get

off your ass, and try your measured distances, your wheelings, your

longes, and art of defence; and I’ll engage, with only the plain rustick

skill I have, to make you see the stars at noon-day; for I trust under

God, the man is yet unborn who can make me turn my back; nor have I met

with any man whom I will not oblige to give ground.’—‘As to turning your

back, or not turning your back, that is none of my business,’ replied

the master of the science; ‘though it is not impossible but that the

first spot you fix your foot on may prove your burying-ground: I mean,

it is possible you may be left dead there, for slighting the noble

science of defence.’—‘That we shall see presently,’ replied Corchuelo,

jumping hastily upon the ground, and snatching with great fury one of

the foils, which the other carried upon his ass.

Here Don Quixote cried out, ‘Not so, by heavens! I will be umpire of

this fencing-match, and judge of this long-controverted dispute.’ So

saying, he alighted from Rozinante, and grasping his lance, planted

himself in the very middle of the road, just as master licentiate, in a

masterly posture and regular advances, was making towards Corchuelo, who

ran at him with fire, as the saying is, flashing from his eyes; while

the two country fellows, without dismounting, sat still as spectators of

this most deadly tragedy. Corchuelo assailed him every way with high

strokes, low strokes, back-strokes, cuts, thrusts, flashes out of

number, and as thick as hail; in short, he fell upon the licentiate like

an enraged lion, but was checked a little in the career of his fury by a

smart push in the mouth from the licentiate’s foil, who made him kiss

the button, though with less devotion than if it had been a relick. In a

word, the licentiate, by skilful and well-planted thrusts, counted the

buttons of his cassock, and went through it so often, that it hung in

rags like the tails of the polypus: twice was Corchuelo’s hat struck

off; and so spent was he, that in rage and spite, and furious choler, he

flung the foil into the air with so much force, that one of the

countrymen, who went to fetch it, being a kind of scrivener, declared

upon oath, that it went near three quarters of a league; which affidavit

being preserved, has been, and is, a testimony to demonstrate that art

prevails over strength.

Corchuelo, quite tired out, sat down; and Sancho going up to him, ‘Mr.

Batchelor,’ said he, ‘if you will be ruled by me, from henceforth

challenge no one to fence, but dare them to wrestle and pitch the bar,

since now you are of a proper age and strength for that exercise; for I

have heard say of these fencers, that they can thrust you the point of a

sword through the eye of a needle.’—‘I am now convinced,’ answered

Corchuelo, ‘and am taught by experience a truth I could not otherwise

have believed.’

So getting up, he went and embraced his adversary, and they were now

better friends than ever. The company not being willing to wait for the

scrivener, who was gone after the foil, imagining he might be too long

absent, resolved to put forward as fast as they could, that they might

arrive early at Quiteria’s village, whither they were all going. As they

travelled on their way, the licentiate demonstrated to them the

excellencies of the noble science of defence, by such convincing

arguments, drawn from the nature of truth and mathematical certainty,

that every one was convinced of the usefulness of the science; and

Corchuelo particularly was made a convert, and entirely cured of his

obstinacy.

The night was just fallen, and before they came to the village, it

seemed as if something like a heaven full of an infinite number of

bright stars was between them and it; they likewise heard an harmonious

but mixed sound of flutes, tambourines, psalters, cymbals, drums, and

bells. As they came nearer, they perceived the boughs of an arbour,

which was made on one side of the entrance into the village; and this

all flaming with lights, which were not in the least disturbed by the

wind; for the evening was so calm, that there was not a breath of air,

so much as to move a leaf upon a tree. But the life and spirit of the

wedding consisted in the musicians, who in bands ranged up and down that

delightful place, some singing, some dancing, and others playing upon

the different instruments. In a word, it looked as if joy and delight

were sporting and playing through this meadow: a great many were

employed in raising scaffolds, that they might view from them more

commodiously the plays and dances which were to be in that place, to

solemnize the nuptials of Camacho the Rich, and the obsequies of

Basilius. Don Quixote refused to enter the village, though both the

batchelor and the countryman invited him: but he pleaded what he thought

a sufficient excuse, the custom of knights-errant to sleep in fields and

forests, rather than in towns, though under gilded roofs; and therefore

he turned a little aside, grievously against the will of Sancho, who had

not yet forgotten the good lodgings he had enjoyed in the house of Don

Diego.

Footnote 154:

Poor people that live about Zamora.

Footnote 155:

Zocodover, a square in Toledo, like Smithfield, where cattle are sold.

CHAP. III.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, AND WHAT HAPPENED TO

BASILIUS THE POOR.

The fair Aurora had hardly allowed Phœbus time to dry up the liquid

pearls that hung upon his golden locks, when Don Quixote shaking from

his limbs the drowsy fetters of sloth, got upon his legs, and called to

Sancho Panza, who lay stretched along, and snoring; which situation his

master seeing, before he awaked him, broke out into this soliloquy:

‘Happy thou, and blessed beyond the fate of other mortals, who, neither

envying nor envied, sleepest sound, with unconcern of soul! Inchanters

neither persecute, nor inchantments terrify thee: sleep on, I say again,

and a hundred times more I say, sleep on; no jealousies on account of a

mistress torture thee with perpetual watchings, no anxious cares of

paying debts awake thee, no solicitude how thou must to-morrow provide

for thyself and little ones breaks in upon thy slumbers. Ambitious views

create thee no disquiet, nor the vain pomp of this empty world occasions

thee any disturbance; thy concern is centered within the bounds of

taking care of thy ass; for, as to taking care of thy person, that is

laid upon my shoulders, a charge and burden that both nature and custom

have laid upon masters; the servant sleeps, while the master is awake,

and thinking how he shall maintain him, advance him in life, or do him

some service. The uneasiness that arises from seeing the heavens as it

were hard as brass, locked up, and refusing rain to cherish the earth,

brings no anxiety upon the servant, but upon the master; who, in the

days of dearth and famine, is bound to provide for him who served him in

the time of abundant and plentiful harvest.’

To all this effusion Sancho answered not one word, for he was fast

asleep, nor would have waked when he did, but that his master jogged him

with the butt-end of his lance. He waked yawning and drowsy; and turning

his face every way, ‘Umph!’ said he, ‘from yonder shady bower, if my

nostrils deceive me not, proceeds rather the steam and savour of broiled

rashers of bacon, than the fragrance of thyme and jessamine. O’ my

conscience! weddings that begin in this savoury manner, must needs, in

truth, be magnificent and abundant.’—‘Thou epicure,’ said Don Quixote,

‘have done, and let us go see this wedding, and what will be the fate of

the slighted Basilius.’—‘Let his fate be as it pleases,’ quoth Sancho;

‘what, he poor and marry Quiteria! A pretty fancy truly, for one not

worth a groat to think of matching so high; ’tis my opinion, a man who

is poor ought to bless God for what he finds, and not be diving to find

truffles at the bottom of the sea. I’ll lay a limb that Camacho can

cover this same Basilius from head to foot with sixpenny pieces; and if

this be so, as it certainly is, Quiteria would be a pretty lady of a

bride, indeed, to refuse all the fine cloaths and fine things that, I

warrant you, Camacho has given her already, and can give her still more;

and to prefer, instead of them, a pitch at the bar truly, and a pass at

the foils, which, it seems, make up Basilius’s riches. Go into a tavern

for a pint of wine, and see if they will take a pitch of the bar, or a

clever push of the foils, in lieu of the reckoning; as for your

abilities, and your refinements, and graces, that will bring in none of

the ready; Count Dirlos may have them for me: but when they happen to

take their resting-place on a man who has wherewithal, O then, I wish no

better than that my life may shew off as well as they do. Upon a good

foundation a good house may be raised, and the very best bottom and best

foundation of any is wealth.’—‘Oh!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘have done; have

done with this harangue: I do from my soul believe, if one would but

suffer thee to go on, thou wouldst lose both thy eating and sleeping in

talking.’—‘Was your worship possessed of a good memory,’ replied Sancho,

‘you would remember certain articles stipulated between us, before we

sallied forth upon this expedition; one of which was, that I was to talk

as much as I pleased, provided it was not scandal against my neighbour,

or derogating from your worship’s authority; and I imagine that nothing

I have hitherto said is a breach of this agreement.’—‘I remember no such

agreement,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but, allowing it to be so, it is my

pleasure you should give over, and come attend me; for now the

instruments we heard last evening send their chearing sounds through the

vallies; and beyond all doubt the nuptials will not be put off to the

sultry heat of the noon-day, but be solemnized in the fresh cool of the

morning.’

Sancho did as he was commanded, and putting on Rozinante’s saddle and

Dapple’s pannel, they both mounted, and gently walked their beasts into

the artificial shade. The first object that presented itself to the eyes

of Sancho, was an entire bullock spitted whole, upon an elm, roasting by

a fire of wood of the size of a middling mountain, and round it six

pots, but not such pots as are cast in common moulds, for they were half

jars, and each of them contained a whole shamble of meat; whole sheep

found room in them, and were stowed as commodiously as if they had been

so many pigeons. There was an innumerable quantity of cased hares; and

ready-plucked fowls that hung about the branches of the trees, ready to

be swallowed up in these receivers; and an infinite number of wild-fowl,

with vast quantities of venison, were likewise hanging about the trees,

for the air to cool them. Sancho himself told above threescore skins,

which, as it was afterwards discovered, were full of rich wines, every

skin containing above twenty-four quarts. Loaves of the whitest bread

were piled up like heaps of wheat on a threshing-floor; and such a

quantity of cheese ranged in the form of bricks, as seemed a wall; two

cauldrons of oil, larger than a dyer’s vat, were ready for frying their

fritters and pancakes; and when fried, they took them out with strong

peels, and dipped them in another pot that stood by full of prepared

honey. The cooks, men and women, amounted to above fifty, clean,

good-humoured, and all busy; in the belly of the roasting bullock were

sewed a dozen sucking pigs, to make it tender and savoury. Spices of all

sorts, which seemed to have been bought by wholesale and not by retail,

stood in a vast chest. In short, the preparations for the wedding were

indeed in a rustick taste, but in such plenty and profusion as might

have feasted an army.

Sancho looked at every thing, attentively considered each particular,

and was in raptures with the whole. But his whole heart and affections

were chiefly captivated by the flesh pots; out of them he would have

been glad, with all his heart, to have filled about a moderate barrel.

Then the wine-skins made his bowels yearn; and after these the contents

of the frying-pans, if vessels of such immoderate size may be so called.

He could hold out no longer; it was not in the power of his nature to

contain himself; therefore up he went to one of the cooks, who was busy,

and addressing himself to him with a humble and hungry air, begged that

he might be permitted to sop a luncheon of bread in one of the pots. To

which request the cook replied, ‘Hunger does not preside over this day,

thanks be to Camacho the Rich; e’en alight, and see if thou canst find

any where a ladle, and skim out a fowl or two, and much good may it do

thy good heart.’—‘I see no ladle,’ laid Sancho. ‘God forgive me all my

sins!’ cried the cook, ‘what a poor helpless thing thou art! stay.’ So

saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and dipping it at once into one of the

half-jar pots, brought up three pullets, and a couple of geese. ‘Here,’

said he, ‘eat; make a breakfast of this scum, and see if you can stay

your stomach with it till dinner-time.’—‘I have nothing to put it in,’

said Sancho. ‘Then take ladle and all,’ replied the cook; ‘for Camacho’s

riches and good fortune are sufficient to supply every thing.’

While Sancho Panza passed his time in this manner, Don Quixote was

attentive in observing about a dozen of countrymen, who entered in at

one side of this spacious arbour, mounted upon beautiful mares, each of

them accoutred with rich and gay caparisons, and hung round with little

bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and coursed round the meadow

in a body, and, in regular careers, several times, with a joyous Moorish

shout, flourishing, and crying out, ‘Long live Camacho and Quiteria, he

as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of the universe.’ Which

exclamation, Don Quixote hearing, said within himself, ‘It is evident

they never have beheld the beauty of my Dulcinea del Toboso; had they

ever been blessed with a sight of her transcendant charms, they would be

more sparing in their praises of this their Quiteria.’

Some time after there entered, at different parts of the arbour,

different sets of dancers; one of whom consisted of twenty-four sword

dancers, all of them clean, well-made, jolly swains, clad in fine white

linen, and white handkerchiefs embroidered with silk of various colours.

One of those who were mounted upon the mares asked a youth, who led the

band of the sword-dancers, whether any of his companions had received

any hurt? ‘As yet,’ replied the other, ‘we are all safe and sound,

thanks be to God, no one is wounded!’ and immediately upon that mixed

among his companions with so many twistings and windings, and with such

dexterity, that though Don Quixote had been used to behold such dances,

he never saw any he approved so much. Another dance likewise pleased him

prodigiously; that was another chorus of twelve most beautiful damsels,

of such an age, that none appeared under fourteen, nor did any seem to

be quite eighteen; they were all clad in green stuff of Cuenca, their

locks were, some plaited, some flowing loose, and all so fine and

flaxen, as to rival those of Phœbus himself, and crowned with garlands

of roses, of jessamine, and of woodbine. This beautiful bevy was led up

to the dance by a venerable old man and an ancient matron, both more

airy and agile than could be expected from their years. A bagpipe of

Zamora was their musick, and with modesty in their looks and

countenances, and lightness of foot, they danced and tripped it away the

prettiest in the world. After these, entered an emblematick dance of

eight nymphs divided into two bodies: the God of Love led one, and

Interest the other; Cupid with his wings, his bow, his quiver, and

arrows; Interest clad in gold, and silk of rich and various colours. The

nymphs, attendants on Cupid, had their names displayed in white

parchment, and capital letters on their backs: the first was named

Poetry, the second Discretion, the third Pedigree, the fourth Bravery.

The attendants on Interest were likewise characterised: the first was

Liberality, the second Bounty, the third Treasure, the fourth Quiet

possession. The whole masque was preceded by a wooden castle, drawn by

savages, clad in ivy and hemp dyed green, and so savage they looked,

that they had almost frightened Sancho. On the front and on each of the

four sides of this machine were inscribed these words, ‘The Castle of

Discretion.’ Four able musicians played on the tabor and the pipe.

Cupid, who began the dance, after he had made two movements, lifted up

his eyes, and bent his bow against a damsel that stood upon the

battlements of the castle, to whom he pronounced this address—

‘I am the God whose pow’r extends

Thro’ the wide ocean, earth, and sky;

To my soft sway all nature bends,

Compell’d by beauty to comply.

Fearless, I rule, in calm and storm,

Indulge my pleasure to the full,

Things deem’d impossible perform,

Bestow, resume, ordain, annul.’

Having repeated these stanzas, he shot an arrow to the top of the

castle, and retired to his station. Then Interest advanced, and

performed other two movements; after which the tabors were silent, and

the power rehearsed these lines—

‘My pow’r exceeds the might of Love;

For Cupid bows to me alone,

Of all things fram’d by Heav’n above,

The most respected, sought, and known.

My name is Interest, mine aid

But few obtain, though all desire;

Yet shall thy virtue, beauteous maid,

My constant services acquire.’

Interest retiring, was succeeded by Poetry; who, after having performed

his motions like the rest, fixed his eyes upon the lady of the castle,

and said—

‘Let Poetry, whose strain divine

The wond’rous pow’r of song displays,

His heart to thee, fair nymph, consign,

Transported, in melodious lays;

If haply, thou wilt not refuse

To grant my supplicated boon,

Thy fame shall, wafted by the muse,

Surmount the circle of the moon.’

Poetry disappearing, Liberality advanced from the side of Interest, and,

after several movements, repeated these lines—

‘My name is Liberality,

Alike beneficent and wise,

To shun wild prodigality,

And sordid avarice despise:

Yet, for thy favour lavish grown,

A prodigal I mean to prove;

An honourable vice, I own,

But giving is the test of love.’

In this manner, all the figures of the two squadrons advanced and

retired, every one performing his movements, and repeating his verses,

some of which were elegant, and others foolish enough; but those we have

inserted were all that Don Quixote could retain, although his memory was

very tenacious: then mixing all together in the dance, they winded and

turned with great ease, grace, and agility. Cupid, in passing, shot

arrows at the castle, while Interest battered it with round gilded

earthen pots: at length, after the dance had continued a good while,

this last pulled out a large purse made of Roman cat skin, to all

appearance full of money, and throwing it at the castle, the boards

seemed to be disjointed by the blow, and immediately fell asunder,

leaving the damsel quite discovered and defenceless; then Interest, with

the figures of his train, advancing, and throwing a great gold chain

about her neck, seemed bent upon taking and dragging her into captivity.

This design being perceived by Cupid and his partisans, they made an

effort to release her, and all their motions were performed by the sound

of the tabors, to which they danced and capered in concert. Then the

savages interposing, and effecting an accommodation, refitted and

rejoined the boards of the castle with admirable dispatch, the damsel

enclosed herself anew; and thus the dance was finished, to the infinite

satisfaction of the spectators.

Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs, what author had contrived and

composed this entertainment; and being told it was the production of the

parson, who had a rare noddle for such conceits, ‘I’ll lay a wager,’

said he, ‘that this same batchelor or curate is more a friend of Camacho

than of Basilius; and that he is better acquainted with satire than

prayer; for he has very artfully interwoven in this mask the talents of

Basilius, and the wealth of his rival.’ Sancho Panza overhearing this

observation, ‘My cock is the king,’ said he; ‘and I hold fast by

Camacho.’—‘Then am I convinced,’ replied the knight, ‘that Sancho is one

of those low-born peasants, who cry, “Long life to the conqueror.”’—‘I

know not,’ resumed the squire, ‘what sect I am of; but this I know

perfectly well, that I shall never skim from the flesh pots of Basilius,

such a delicate scum as this that I have taken from the boilers of

Camacho.’ With these words, he produced the kettle full of geese and

pullets, and seizing a bird, began to eat with great glee and

satisfaction; saying, in defiance of the talents possessed by Basilius,

‘Thou art worth just as much as thou hast, and hast just as much as thou

art worth. There are only two families in the world, as my grannum was

wont to observe, the Have-somethings and the Have-nothings: though she

always stuck to the former; and now-a-days, my good master, we are more

apt to feel the pulse of property than of wisdom. An ass with golden

trappings, makes a better appearance than a horse with a pack saddle.

Therefore, I say again, I hold fast by Camacho, the plentiful scum of

whose pots contains geese, hares, and conies; while that of Basilius, if

it comes to hand, or even if it should only come to the feet, is no

better than dish-washings.’

‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘hast thou finished thy harangue?’—‘It

shall be finished,’ replied the squire, ‘as I see your worship is

displeased with it; though, if your disgust had not fallen in the way, I

had cut out work enough for three days.’—‘Grant Heaven,’ said the

knight, ‘that I may see thee dumb before I die!’—‘At the rate we

follow,’ answered Panza, ‘before your worship dies, my mouth will be

crammed with clay, and then I may chance to be so dumb, that I shall not

speak another word to the end of the world, or at least till the day of

judgment.’—‘Even should that be the case,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I say

unto thee, O Sancho! thy silence will never counterbalance what thou

didst, dost, and wilt say, during the course of thy life; moreover,

according to the nature of things, the day of my death will happen

before thine; so that I have no hope of ever seeing thee silent, even

while thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the greatest favour I

could expect.’

‘In good sooth, Signior,’ said the squire, ‘there is no trusting to Mrs.

Ghostly, (I mean, death) who gobbles up the goslin as well as the

goose[156]; and as I have heard our curate observe, tramples down the

lofty turrets of the prince, as well as the lowly cottage of the swain.

That same lady who is more powerful than coy, knows not what it is to be

dainty and squeamish; but eats of every thing, and crams her wallet with

people of all nations, degrees, and conditions; she is none of your

labourers that take this afternoon’s nap, but mows at all hours, cutting

down the dry stubble as well as the green grass; nor does she seem to

chew, but rather swallows and devours every thing that falls in her way;

for she is gnawed by a dog’s hunger that is never satisfied; and though

she has no belly, plainly shews herself dropsical, and so thirsty as to

drink up the lives of all the people upon earth, just as one would

swallow a draught of cool water.’—‘Enough, friend Sancho,’ cried the

knight, interrupting him in this place; ‘keep thyself well, now thou art

in order, and beware of stumbling again; for, really, a good preacher

could not speak more to the purpose than thou hast spoken upon death, in

thy rustick manner of expression; I say unto thee, Sancho, if thy

discretion was equal to thy natural parts, thou mightest ascend the

pulpit, and go about teaching and preaching to admiration.’—‘He is a

good preacher who is a good liver,’ answered Panza; ‘and that is all the

divinity I know.’—‘And that is sufficient,’ said the knight; ‘yet I

shall never understand or comprehend, as the fear of God is the

beginning of wisdom, how thou, who art more afraid of a lizard than of

thy Maker, should be so wise?’—‘Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘I desire your

worship would determine in your own affairs of chivalry, without taking

the trouble to judge of other people’s valour or fears; for my own part,

I am as pretty a fearer of God as one would desire to see in any

neighbour’s child; wherefore, I beseech your worship, let me discuss

this same scum; for every thing else is idle chat, of which we shall be

able to give a bad account in the other world.’ So saying, he renewed

his attack upon his kettle, with such keen appetite as awakened that of

his master, who would certainly have joined in the assault, had not he

been prevented by that which we must now relate.

Footnote 156:

In the original there is a play upon the words Descarnado, Cordero,

and Carnero, which I have endeavoured to imitate, by substituting

goose in the room of mutton, which is the literal meaning of the text.

CHAP. IV.

WHICH CONTINUES TO TREAT OF CAMACHO’S WEDDING, AND OTHER INCIDENTS.

While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the conversation related in

the preceding chapter, they heard a great noise and shouting, raised by

a company mounted on mares, galloping in full cry, to meet the young

couple; who came surrounded by a thousand kinds of instruments, and

accompanied by the curate, the relations, and all the creditable people

of the neighbouring villages, in their holiday cloaths. Sancho, seeing

the bride, exclaimed with marks of admiration, ‘I ’faith! she looks more

like one of your gay court-dames, than a plain country-maid. Now, by the

biggest beads of my rosary! instead of a tin brooch[157], her breast is

bedizened with rich coral, and her hoyden-grey is turned into

thirty-piled velvet; and, body o’me! the trimming is not of white linen,

but of silk and sattin: then handle me her hands, set off with what?

jewels of jet? No! let me never thrive, if they an’t decked with rings

of gold! aye, and of massy gold, paved with pearls as white as a curd,

every one of which is worth a Jew’s eye. O the whoreson baggage! and

such hair! if it is not false, I never saw any so long, and so fair in

my born-days. Do but mind how buxom, straight, and tall she is, and see

whether she may not be compared to a moving palm-tree, loaded with

clusters of dates; for nothing can be more like the gewgaws and toys

that hang from her hair and neck. By my salvation! the damsel is well

covered, and might pass through all the banks of Flanders.’ Don Quixote,

though he smiled at the rustick praises of his squire, owned that,

exclusive of his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, she was the most

beautiful female he had ever seen.

Nevertheless, the fair Quiteria was paler than usual; and this change of

complexion must have been owing to the bad night which brides always

pass in adorning themselves for the approaching day of their nuptials.

The company repaired to a theatre erected at one side of the meadow, and

ornamented with carpets and boughs, where the ceremony was to be

performed, and from whence they were to see the masques and other

diversions; and they had just arrived at the place when their ears were

saluted with a noise behind them, and a voice that pronounced, ‘Stay a

little, hasty and inconsiderate people.’—In consequence of this address,

they turned about, and perceived it was uttered by a man cloathed in a

loose black coat, interspersed with crimson flames, crowned, as they

soon perceived, with a chaplet of funeral cypress, and holding in his

hand a truncheon of uncommon size. As he approached, he was known to be

the gallant Basilius; at sight of whom they were surprized, and waited

in suspence to see the issue of his exclamation, dreading some mischance

from such an unseasonable visit. At length, wearied and breathless, he

came up to the bride and bridegroom, and thrusting in the ground his

staff that was pointed with steel, he fixed his eyes upon Quiteria, and

with a pale aspect and hoarse quavering voice, pronounced these words:

‘Thou well knowest, ungrateful Quiteria, that, according to the holy

faith we profess, thou canst not espouse another husband while I am

alive; nor art thou ignorant, that while I waited until time and

diligence should meliorate my fortune, I never sought to deviate from

that decorum which thy honour required I should preserve; yet thou,

disburdening thyself of all the obligations which thou owest to my

honest passion, hast made another person master of what is justly mine;

a man whose wealth is not only subservient to his good fortune, but even

renders him superlatively happy; which happiness, that he may enjoy to

the full (not that I think he deserves it, but because it is the will of

Heaven to bestow it) I will, with my own hands, remove the impossibility

or inconvenience that may obstruct it, by taking myself out of the way.

Long live, long live Camacho the Rich, with Quiteria the Ungrateful, to

enjoy many quiet and happy years; and death be the portion of the poor

Basilius, whose poverty clipped the wings of his fortune, and laid him

in an untimely grave.’

So saying, he laid hold of the staff which he had stuck in the earth,

and drew from it a middling tuck, which was concealed in it as in a

scabbard; then fixing that which may be called the hilt on the ground,

he threw himself, with great activity and resolution, upon the point,

which in an instant came out bloody at his shoulder, leaving the unhappy

youth weltering in gore, and stretched upon the ground, transfixed with

his own weapon. His friends immediately ran to his assistance, pierced

with affliction at his misery and lamentable fate; and Don Quixote,

dismounting, flew to his relief, held him in his arms, and found that he

had not as yet expired. They were inclined to withdraw the tuck; but the

curate, who was present, gave his opinion that it should not be

withdrawn before he had confessed himself, because his death would be

the immediate consequence of pulling out the weapon. Meanwhile, Basilius

recovering a little, said, in a faint and piteous tone, ‘Ah, cruel

Quiteria! wouldst thou, in this last and fatal agony, bestow upon me thy

hand in marriage, I should deem my rashness exculpated, seeing by that I

should acquire the happiness of calling thee my own.’ The curate,

hearing this address, exhorted him to employ his attention upon the

health of his soul, rather than upon such carnal pleasures, and

earnestly pray to God to pardon his sins, and in particular this last

desperate determination. To this remonstrance Basilius replied, that he

would by no means confess, until Quiteria should first grant him her

hand, a favour which would set his heart at rest, and give him spirits

to undergo his confession.

Don Quixote hearing the petition of the wounded man, declared, in an

audible voice, that Basilius requested nothing but what was just and

reasonable, and besides very practicable; and that Signior Camacho’s

honour would suffer no more, in wedding Signora Quiteria as the widow of

Basilius, than in receiving her from her father’s own hands; for here

nothing was required but the monosyllable of assent, which could have no

other effect than the trouble of pronouncing it, as the bridal bed must

also be the tomb of such a marriage. Camacho heard the whole, which kept

him in such confusion and suspence, that he knew not what to say or do:

but the friends of Basilius were so clamorous in soliciting him to

consent to Quiteria’s giving her hand in marriage to the hapless youth,

whose soul would otherwise perish in despair, that he was persuaded, and

as it were compelled to say, that if his bride would grant that favour,

he should be satisfied, as it would only for a moment delay the

accomplishment of his desires. Immediately they surrounded Quiteria,

whom with tears, intreaties, and other pathetic remonstrances, they

pressed to give her hand to poor Basilius; but she, more obdurate than

marble, and more inflexible than a statue, neither could, would, or

desired to answer one word; nor would she have made the least reply, had

not the curate desired her to come to a speedy determination, for the

soul of Basilius being already between his teeth, would not afford long

time for hesitation.

Then the beautiful Quiteria, without speaking one syllable, but

seemingly disordered, sad, and sorrowful, advanced to the place where

Basilius lay, with his eyes already fixed, breathing short and thick,

murmuring the name of Quiteria, and, to all appearance, dying rather

like an heathen than a Christian. The bride at length approaching, and

kneeling before him, desired by signs he would hold out his hand: then

Basilius unfixing his eyes, and stedfastly gazing upon her, ‘O

Quiteria!’ said he, ‘thou art become kind at a time when thy kindness

must serve as a sword to finish my unfortunate life; seeing I have not

strength enough left to obtain that glory which thou wouldst confer in

calling me thine; or to suspend the grief that comes so fast to cover

mine eyes with the dismal shades of death. What I request, O fatal star

of my destiny! is, that thy consent to this exchange of vows may not be

a mere compliment to deceive me anew; but that thou wilt confess and

declare there is no restraint upon thy inclination, while thy hand is

given and delivered to me as thy lawful husband, for it would be cruel

to use deceit and dissimulation with one in such extremity, who has

always behaved to thee with such sincerity and truth.’ Having pronounced

these words, he fainted away, so that all the bye-standers thought his

soul would forsake his body in that swoon: but when he retrieved the use

of his faculties, Quiteria, all-blushing with modesty, took hold of his

right hand, saying, ‘No force upon earth would be sufficient to biass my

will; and therefore, with all the freedom of inclination, I give thee my

hand as thy lawful wife, and receive thine on the same terms, if thou

bestowest it with the same good will, undisturbed and unconfounded by

the calamity into which thou hast been hurried by thy own precipitate

conduct.’—‘I do,’ answered Basilius, ‘without either disorder or

confusion; but, on the contrary, with all the clearness of understanding

with which Heaven hath thought proper to endow me, I give and deliver

myself for thy true and faithful husband.’—‘And I take thee for such,’

replied Quiteria, ‘whether thou mayest live many years, or now be

hurried from mine arms to the grave.’—‘Considering how desperately this

spark is wounded,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘methinks he talks woundily: make

him lay aside his courtship, and mind his soul, which seems to be in his

tongue rather than between his teeth.’

The hands of Basilius and Quiteria being joined, the tender-hearted

curate, with tears in his eyes, pronounced the nuptial benediction, and

fervently prayed, that God would grant forgiveness and repose to the

soul of the bridegroom; who no sooner perceived the ceremony was

performed, than he nimbly sprung upon his legs with incredible activity,

withdrew the tuck which was sheathed in his body, to the admiration of

the by-standers; some of whom, being more simple than curious, began to

cry aloud, ‘A miracle! a miracle!’ But Basilius replied, ‘No miracle! no

miracle! but sheer industry! nothing but industry!’ The curate,

confounded and astonished, ran up to feel the wound with both his hands,

and found that the blade, instead of passing through the body of

Basilius, had run through an iron tube fitted to the part, and full of

blood, which, as they afterwards understood, was prepared so as to

retain its fluidity: in a word, the curate and Camacho, with almost all

the company, found themselves fairly out-witted. The bride, however,

expressed no mortification at the deceit: on the contrary, hearing

somebody observe that such a marriage, obtained by fraud, could not be

valid, she said she confirmed it anew. From which circumstance every one

concluded that the stratagem had been contrived and executed with her

privity and consent. This supposition enraged Camacho and his adherents

to such a degree, that they referred their revenge to the prowess of

their hands, and, unsheathing a great many swords, assaulted Basilius,

in whose favour almost an equal number were instantly produced. Don

Quixote taking the lead on horseback, well armed with his lance and

shield, made the whole company give ground; while Sancho, who had no

delight or comfort in such exploits, retired to the jars from which he

had extracted his agreeable scum, looking upon that place as a sacred

sanctuary and respected retreat. The knight exclaimed, in an audible

voice, ‘Forbear, gentlemen, forbear: it is unjust to revenge the

grievances of love; for, in this particular, love and war are the same;

and, as in the last, it is lawful and customary to use feints and

stratagems against the enemy; so likewise in amorous contests and

competitions, all sorts of tricks and contrivances, are allowed in

attaining the accomplishment of the lover’s desire, provided they do not

tend to the disparagement or dishonour of the beloved object. Quiteria

was fated to Basilius, and Basilius to Quiteria, by the just and

favourable determination of Heaven. Camacho is rich, and may purchase

his pleasure when, where, and how his inclination shall require: whereas

Basilius has but this one poor sheep, of which he ought not to be

deprived by any person how powerful soever he may be; for those whom God

hath joined, no man shall put asunder; and he who attempts it must first

pass through the point of this lance.’ So saying, he brandished it with

such strength and dexterity, as filled the hearts of those who did not

know him with fear and consternation; and the disdain of Quiteria made

such a deep impression upon the imagination of Camacho, that he shook

her from his heart in an instant; so that the persuasions of the curate,

who was a prudent and well-meaning priest, pacified and quieted him and

his partizans, who, in token of peace, sheathed their weapons, blaming

the inconstancy of Quiteria more than the contrivance of Basilius; and

Camacho himself observed, that if she loved Basilius before marriage,

the same love would have continued after it; and that he had more reason

to thank Heaven for having lost, than he should have had for obtaining

such an help-mate.

Camacho, and those of his train, being thus consoled and appeased, the

friends of Basilius took no step to disturb their peace; and Camacho the

Rich, in order to shew how little he resented or thought of the trick

which had been played him, desired that the entertainments might proceed

as if he was really to be married: but Basilius with his bride and

followers refusing to partake of them, set out in a body for the place

of his habitation; for the poor, who are virtuous and discreet, will

always find people to honour, attend, and support them, as well as the

rich with all their parasites and companions. In consequence of their

earnest intreaty, they were accompanied by Don Quixote, whom they

esteemed as a prodigy of valour and integrity; and nothing was cloudy

but the soul of Sancho, when he found it impossible to enjoy the

splendid banquets and diversions of Camacho, that lasted till night: he

therefore, in a fretful and melancholy mood, followed his master, who

joined the troop of Basilius; leaving behind the flesh-pots of Egypt,

although he still retained them in his fancy; and the half-finished scum

of his kettle inhanced the glory and abundance of the benefit he had

lost; so that, pensive, sullen, and sad, yet without hunger or

dismounting from Dapple, he silently trudged after the heels of

Rozinante.

Footnote 157:

The patina was a small consecrated plate which the Spanish women,

especially those of an inferior rank, wore upon their breasts.

CHAP. V.

IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE VAST ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS,

IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH WAS HAPPILY ATCHIEVED

BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE.

Great and manifold were the treats and particulars of respect, paid to

Don Quixote by the new-married couple, who thought themselves greatly

obliged by the readiness he had shewn to defend their cause, and looked

upon his discretion to be equal to his valour; indeed, they esteemed him

a perfect Cid in arms, and a Cicero in elocution. Honest Sancho regaled

himself three days at their expence, during which it was known that the

contrivance of the fictitious wound had not been communicated to

Quiteria, but was hatched by the ingenuity of Basilius himself, in hope

of meeting with that success which, as we have seen, he actually

attained; true it is, he confessed he had imparted his design to some of

his friends, that they might, in case of necessity, favour his

intention, and facilitate the execution of his deceit.

‘Whatsoever hath virtue for its ultimate aim,’ said Don Quixote,

‘neither can or ought to be called deceit; and surely no aim can be more

excellent than the union of two lovers in the holy bands of marriage.’

He observed, that the greatest enemy of love is hunger and necessity;

for love is altogether sprightly, joyous, and satisfied, especially when

the object of desire is in possession of the lover, whose fierce and

declared adversaries are want and inconvenience. He made these

observations with a view to persuade Signior Basilius to quiet the

exercise of those talents he possessed, which, though they acquired

reputation, would not earn a farthing of money, and to employ his

attention in augmenting his estate by legal and industrious means, that

never fail the prudent and the careful. The poor man of honour (if a

poor man can deserve that title) possesses, in a beautiful wife, a

jewel; and when that is taken away, he is deprived of his honour, which

is murdered: a beautiful and chaste woman, whose husband is poor,

deserves to be crowned with laurel and palms of triumph; for beauty

alone attracts the inclinations of those who behold it, just as the

royal eagle and soaring hawk stoop to the savoury lure; but if that

beauty is incumbered by poverty and want, it is likewise attacked by

ravens, kites, and other birds of prey; and if she who possesses it

firmly withstands all these assaults, she well deserves to be called the

crown of her husband. ‘Take notice, dearest Basilius,’ added the knight,

‘it was the opinion of a certain sage, that there was but one good wife

in the whole world; and he advised every husband to believe she had

fallen to his share, and accordingly be satisfied with his lot. I myself

am not married, nor hitherto have I entertained the least thought of

changing my condition; nevertheless, I will venture to advise him who

asks my advice, in such a manner, that he may find a woman to his wish:

in the first place, I would exhort him to pay more regard to reputation

than to fortune; for a virtuous woman does not acquire a good name,

merely by being virtuous, she must likewise maintain the exteriors of

deportment, for the honour of the sex suffers much more from levity and

freedom of behaviour in publick, than from any private misdeeds. If thou

bringest a good woman to thy house, it will be an easy task to preserve

and even improve her virtue; but, shouldst thou chuse a wife of a

different character, it will cost thee abundance of pains to mend her;

for it is not very practicable to pass from one extreme to another: I do

not say it is altogether impossible, though I hold it for a matter of

much difficulty.’

Sancho hearing these remarks, said to himself, ‘This master of mine,

whenever I chance to utter any thing pithy or substantial, will say I

might take a pulpit in hand, and travel through the world, teaching and

preaching to admiration; now, I will say for him, that when he begins to

string sentences, and give advice, he might not only take one pulpit in

hand, but even a couple on each finger, and stroll about the

market-towns. Wit, whither wouldst thou? May the devil fetch him for a

knight-errant! he knows but every thing. I thought for certain, he could

be acquainted with nothing but what relates to his chivalries; but he

pecks at every thing, and throws his spoonful in every man’s dish.’

His master overheard him murmuring in this manner, and asking what he

grumbled at, ‘I don’t grumble,’ answered Sancho, ‘I was only saying to

myself, I wished I had heard those remarks of your worship before I

married; in which case I might now, perhaps, remark in my turn, “The

loosened ox is well licked.”’—‘What, is Teresa such a bad wife?’ said

the knight. ‘Not very bad,’ answered the squire, ‘but then she is not

very good; at least, not so good as I could wish.’—‘You are in the

wrong, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to disparage your wife, who in effect

is the mother of your children.’—‘As to that matter,’ replied Sancho,

‘we are not at all in one another’s debt; for she can disparage me fast

enough, especially when she takes it in her head to be jealous, and then

Satan himself could not endure her.’

In a word, they stayed three days with the new-married couple, during

which they were treated and served like the king’s own person; and here

Don Quixote desired the nimble-wristed licentiate to provide him with a

guide to direct his steps to the cave of Montesinos, which he had a

longing desire to explore, that he might investigate with his own eyes

the truth of those wonderful stories that were reported of it through

the whole neighbourhood. The licentiate promised to accommodate him with

a first cousin of his own, a famous student deeply read in books of

chivalry, who would willingly conduct him to the very mouth of the cave,

and point out the lakes of Ruydera, so famous not only in the province

of La Mancha, but also through the whole kingdom of Spain; and he

likewise observed, that he would find his conversation very

entertaining; for he was a lad who knew how to compose books for the

press, and even dedicate them to princes. At length this cousin arrived

upon an ass big with foal, whose pannel was covered with a piece of

tawdry tapestry or carpet: Sancho saddled Rozinante, put Dapple in

order, stowed his wallet, which was reinforced by the cousin’s, likewise

very well stored; then recommending themselves to God, and taking leave

of the company, they set out, chusing the shortest road to the famous

cave of Montesinos.

While they travelled along, Don Quixote addressing himself to the

student, asked what was the nature and quality of his exercises,

studies, and profession? To this question the other answered, that his

profession was humanity; and that his exercise and study consisted in

composing books for the press, of great emolument, and no less

entertainment to the publick; that one of them was intitled, The Book of

Liveries, in which he had described seven hundred and three liveries,

with their colours, mottos, and cyphers: ‘From these,’ said he, ‘your

courtiers may extract and assume such devices as will suit their

fancies, in times of festivity and rejoicing, without going about

begging from any person whatever, or cudgelling their brains, as the

saying is, in order to invent what will suit their several desires and

dispositions; for I insert those that will fit the jealous, the

disdained, the forgotten, and absent, so exactly, that the just will far

exceed the number of the Gentiles, I have likewise finished another

book, which I propose to call, The Metamorphoses; or, The Spanish Ovid;

of an invention equally new and agreeable; for there, in imitation of

Naso, I give a burlesque description and history of the Giralda of

Seville, the Angel of La Madalina, the Conduit of Vecinguerra at

Cordova, the bulls of Guisanda, the Sierra Morena, the Fountains of

Leganitos, and the Levapies of Madrid, not forgetting those of the

Piojo, the Golden Pipe, and the Priora, with their allegories,

metaphors, and transformations, which at once surprize, instruct, and

entertain. I have a third performance, which I denominate, The

Supplement to Polydore’s Virgil, which treats of the invention of

things, and is a work of great study and erudition; for many things of

great importance, which Polydore has omitted, I examine and explain in a

most elegant stile: he, for example, has forgot to let us know who was

the first person troubled with a defluxion or rheum, and who was first

anointed for the cure of the French distemper: now these two questions I

resolve in the most accurate manner, upon the authority of above five

and twenty authors; so your worship will perceive whether I have

laboured to good purpose, and composed a book that will be useful to the

world in general.’

Sancho having listened very attentively to this narration, ‘Tell me,

Signior,’ said he, ‘so may God lend an helping hand to the printing of

your books; tell me, if you know, and surely you know every thing, who

was the first man that scratched his own head? for my own part, I firmly

believe it must have been our father Adam.’—‘Certainly,’ answered the

student; ‘for Adam without doubt had a head, and hair upon it; now that

being the case, and he being the first man in the world, he must have

scratched it sometimes.’—‘I am of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho;

‘but now, pray tell me who was the first tumbler!’—‘Verily, brother,’

resumed the scholar, ‘I cannot determine that point until I shall have

studied it, and study it I will, upon my return to the place where I

keep my books; so that I shall satisfy you the next time we meet, for I

hope this will not be the last time of our meeting.’—‘Then I desire you

will give yourself no trouble about the matter,’ said Sancho; ‘for I

have already found out the solution of my question: know, Signior, that

the first tumbler must have been Lucifer, who, when he was thrown and

rejected from heaven, came tumbling down to the bottomless

pit.’—‘Friend,’ cried the student, ‘you are certainly in the

right.’—‘That question and answer,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is none of thy

own; thou must have learned them from some other person, Sancho.’—‘Hold

your tongue, Signior,’ replied the squire: ‘for, in good faith! if I

begin to question and answer, I shall not have done till morning: yes,

as to the matter of asking like a fool, and answering like a simpleton,

I have no occasion to crave the assistance of my neighbours.’—‘Thou hast

said more than thou art aware of,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for some

people there are who fatigue themselves in learning, and investigating

that which, when learned and investigated, is not worth a farthing

either to the memory or understanding.’

In this and other such relishing discourse they passed that day, and at

night took up their lodging in a small village, from whence, as the

scholar told the knight, the distance to the cave of Montesinos did not

exceed a couple of leagues; and he observed, that if Don Quixote was

really determined to explore the cavern, it would be necessary to

provide ropes, by which he might be lowered down to its bottom. The

knight said, that although he should descend to the abyss, he would see

the bottom, for which purpose he purchased about a hundred fathoms of

rope. Next day, about two o’clock in the afternoon, they arrived at the

cave, and found the mouth broad and spacious, though overgrown with

thorns, weeds, brambles, and brakes, so thick and intricate, that it was

almost quite covered and concealed; at sight of the place all three

alighted; the student and Sancho immediately began to fasten the rope

strongly about the knight, and while they were thus employed in cording

and girding him, Sancho addressing himself to the adventurer, ‘Dear

master,’ said he, ‘consider what your worship is about; seek not to bury

yourself alive, and to be used like a bottle of wine, let down to cool

in some well; for it neither concerns nor belongs to your worship to be

the surveyor of that pit, which must be worse than a dungeon.’—‘Tie the

knot, and hold thy tongue, friend Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘for

such an enterprize as this was reserved for me alone.’ Then the guide

interposing, ‘I intreat your worship, Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘to

consider attentively and examine, as it were, with a hundred eyes, every

circumstance within this cave, where, perhaps, there may be things which

I shall insert among my transformations.’—‘The cymbal,’ answered Sancho,

‘is in the hands that can play it to the utmost nicety.’

This discourse having passed, and the ligature being made, not over the

knight’s armour but his doublet, ‘We have been guilty of an

inadvertency,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in coming hither unprovided with a

small bell, which, had it been tied to me with the same cord, would,

with its sound, have given you notice, as I descended, of my being

alive; but, as it is now impossible to be accommodated, I commit myself

to the hands of God, who will conduct me.’ Then falling upon his knees,

he in a low voice preferred a prayer to Heaven, beseeching God to assist

and crown him with success, in this seemingly perilous and new

adventure. His ejaculation being finished, he pronounced, in a loud

voice, ‘O! thou mistress of my deeds and motions, the most resplendent

and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso! if the prayer and petition of this thy

adventurous lover can possibly reach thine ears, I conjure thee, by thy

unheard-of beauty, to grant my request, which is no other than that thou

wouldst not now deny me thy favour and protection, when I stand so much

in need of both; for I am just upon the brink of darting, plunging, and

ingulphing myself into the profound abyss that opens wide before me, on

purpose that the world may know there is nothing so impossible that I

will not attempt and execute, under the wings of thy favour.’

So saying, he approached the pit, where he found it would be

impracticable to slip down, or make way for entering, without the

strength of arms and back-strokes: he therefore, unsheathing his sword,

began to lay about him, and mow down the bushes that grew around the

mouth of the cave, out of which an infinite number of huge crows and

daws, affrighted at the noise and disturbance, sallied forth with such

force and velocity, as laid the knight upon his back; and had he been as

superstitious as he was a good catholick, he would have looked upon this

irruption as a bad omen, and excused himself from visiting the bowels of

such a dreary place; at length he rose, and seeing that the flight of

crows, and other birds of night, was now over, (for a number of bats had

likewise come forth) he put the rope into the hands of Sancho and the

scholar, desiring them to lower him down to the bottom of that dreadful

cavern, which when he entered, Sancho gave him his benediction, and

making a thousand crosses over him, exclaimed, ‘God and the Rock of

France, together with the Trinity of Gaeta, be thy guides, thou flower,

and cream, and scum of knights-errant: there thou goest, bully of the

globe, heart of steel, and arm of brass! I say again, God be thy guide,

and bring thee back safe, sound, and without deceit, to the light of

this life, which thou art now forsaking to bury thyself in that

obscurity.’ Almost the same prayer and deprecation was uttered by the

scholar; while Don Quixote called aloud for rope, and afterwards for

more rope, which they gave him by little and little. By that time the

voice, which ascended through the windings and turnings of the cave,

ceased to vibrate on their ears, they had already uncoiled the hundred

fathoms, and were inclined to hoist him up again, as they had no more

cord to spare: they stayed, however, about half an hour, at the

expiration of which they began to pull up the rope, which seemed to have

no weight attached to it, and came up with such ease, that they imagined

the knight was left below; a supposition, in consequence of which the

squire wept most bitterly, while he pulled with great eagerness in order

to discover the truth; but when they had coiled up about four-score

fathoms they felt the weight again, and were exceedingly rejoiced:

finally, at the distance of ten fathoms, they distinctly perceived Don

Quixote; to whom Sancho addressed himself, saying, ‘Dear master, I wish

your worship an happy return; we began to think you had tarried below to

breed.’