Six whole days did Don Quixote lie a-bed, pensive, melancholy, mauled,

and meagre, revolving in his imagination, and meditating incessantly on

the unfortunate incident of his overthrow; notwithstanding the

consolations of Sancho, who, among other arguments of comfort, exhorted

his worship to hold up his head, and dispel his sorrow, if possible.

‘Your worship,’ said he, ‘has reason to thank God, that, though you are

overthrown, your ribs are still whole: you know that, in those matters,

we must take as well as give; and where there are hooks we do not always

find bacon—A fig for the physician, seeing we do not want his help in

the cure of this distemper: let us return to our habitation, and leave

off travelling about in quest of adventures, through lands and countries

unknown; nay, if we rightly consider the case, I am the greatest loser,

though your worship is the most roughly handled; for though, when I

quitted the government, I likewise quitted all thought of governing, I

did not give up the desire of being a count, which will never be

fulfilled if your worship should renounce your design of being a king,

and quit the exercise of chivalry; in that case all my hopes must vanish

into smoke.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said the disconsolate knight; ‘the term of

my penance and retirement will not exceed a year, at the end of which I

will return to the honourable duties of my profession, and then we shall

find kingdoms to conquer and countships to bestow.’—‘The Lord give ear,

and my sin never hear!’ cried Sancho: ‘and I have always heard it said,

that righteous hope is better than unjust possession.’

Their conversation was interrupted by Don Antonio; who, entering the

apartment with marks of infinite satisfaction, exclaimed—‘Money for my

good news, Signior Don Quixote: Don Gregorio, and the renegado who

undertook his deliverance, are now in the road—in the road! they are, by

this time, in the viceroy’s palace, and will be here in an instant.’ The

knight was a little revived by these tidings, and replied—‘In truth, I

was going to say, I should have been glad to hear that the scheme had

not succeeded, so that I should have been obliged to cross over into

Barbary, where I would, by the strength of my arm, have given liberty

not only to Don Gregorio, but also to all the Christian captives in

Algiers—but what am I saying, miserable caitif? am not I vanquished? am

not I overthrown? am not I excluded from the exercise of arms for the

space of a whole year? wherefore, then, promise what I cannot perform?

wherefore praise my own valour, when I am fitter for handling a distaff

than for wielding a sword?’—‘No more of that, good Signior,’ replied the

squire; ‘Let the hen live though she has the pip: To-day for thee, and

to-morrow for me: as to those matters of encounters and dry bastings,

they are not to be minded; for he that falls to-day may rise to-morrow,

if he does not chuse to lie a-bed; I mean, if he does not chuse to

despair, without endeavouring to recover fresh spirits for fresh

adventures. Get up, therefore, I beseech your worship, and receive Don

Gregorio; for the people are in such an uproar, that by this time he

must be in the house.’

This was really the case: Don Gregorio and the renegado having given the

viceroy an account of the voyage and success of the undertaking, the

young gentleman, impatient to see his dear Anna Felix, was come with his

deliverer to the house of Don Antonio; and although Don Gregorio was in

woman’s apparel when they delivered him from Algeirs, he had exchanged

it in the vessel with another captive by whom he was accompanied; but,

in any dress whatsoever, his appearance was such as commanded

friendship, service, and esteem; for he was exceedingly beautiful, and

seemingly not above seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his

daughter went forth to receive him; the father with tears of joy, and

Anna with the most modest deportment: nor did this fair couple embrace

one another; for, where genuine love prevails, such freedom of behaviour

is seldom indulged. The beauty of Don Gregorio and his mistress excited

the admiration of all the spectators; while silence spoke for the lovers

themselves, and their eyes performing the office of the tongue,

disclosed the joy of their virtuous thoughts. The renegado recounted the

stratagem and means he had used for the deliverance of the youth; who

likewise entertained the company with a detail of the dangers and

distresses to which he was exposed among the women with whom he had been

left; and this task he performed not with diffused prolixity, but in

elegant and concise terms, which plainly proved that his discretion far

exceeded his years. Finally, Ricote liberally rewarded the rowers and

the renagado, who re-united and re-incorporated himself with the church,

and from a rotten member, became fair and sound, by dint of

mortification and sincere repentance.

Two days after the arrival of Don Gregorio, the viceroy consulted with

Don Antonio about the means of obtaining permission for Anna Felix and

her father to reside in Spain, as they were persuaded that no

inconvenience could arise from such indulgence to a daughter who was so

perfectly a Christian, and a father so righteously disposed. Don Antonio

offered to negotiate this affair at court, whither he was pressingly

called by his own occasions; observing, that by dint of interest and

presents many difficulties are removed. Ricote, who was present at this

conversation, said, ‘There is nothing to be hoped from favour or

presents; neither tears, entreaties, promises, nor presents, will avail

with the great Don Bernandino de Velasco, Count de Selaza, to whom his

majesty has entrusted the charge of our expulsion; for, although he

really tempers justice with mercy, as he perceives the whole body of our

nation contaminated and gangrened, he applies the actual cautery instead

of the mollifying ointment; so that, by his diligence, prudence,

sagacity, and terrifying threats, he has sustained upon his able

shoulders the weight of that vast project which he has successfully put

in execution, without suffering his Argus eyes, which are always alert,

to be blinded by all our industry, stratagem, fraud, and solicitation.

He is resolved that none of our people shall remain concealed; lest,

like an hidden root, they may hereafter bud and bring forth fruit which

may be poisonous to Spain, already cleansed and delivered from those

fears that arose from the prodigious number of Moors: an heroick

resolution of the great Philip III. who has, at the same time, displayed

the most consummate wisdom, in committing the execution of the scheme to

the courage and ability of Don Bernandino de Velasco.’—‘Nevertheless,’

said Don Antonio, ‘I will, while at court, use all possible means in

your behalf, and leave the determination to Heaven; Don Gregorio shall

go along with me, and console his parents for the grief they have

suffered from his absence; Anna Felix shall stay with my wife, or be

boarded in a monastery; and, I know, my lord viceroy will be pleased to

lodge honest Ricote until we shall see the issue of my negociation.’ The

viceroy agreed to every circumstance of the proposal; but Don Gregorio,

being informed of the scheme, declared he neither could nor would leave

his charming Anna Felix. At length, however, he assented to the

proposal, resolving to go and visit his parents, with whom he would

concert measures for returning to fetch away his mistress; so that Anna

Felix remained with Don Antonio’s lady, and Ricote staid in the

viceroy’s palace.

The hour of Antonio’s departure arrived; and, in two days, was followed

by that of Don Quixote, whose fall would not permit him to travel before

that time. The parting of the lovers was attended with weeping, sighing,

sobbing, and swooning; and Ricote offered to accommodate Don Gregorio

with a thousand crowns; but the young gentleman would take but five,

which he borrowed of Don Antonio, promising to repay them at court. Thus

they set out together for Madrid; and soon after, as we have already

observed, Don Quixote and Sancho departed from Barcelona; the knight

unarmed, in a travelling dress, and the squire trudging a-foot, because

Dapple carried the armour of his master.

CHAP. XIV.

TREATING OF THAT WHICH WILL BE SEEN BY HIM WHO READS,

AND KNOWN BY HIM WHO HEARS IT READ.

Don Quixote, in leaving Barcelona, turned about to survey the fatal spot

in which he had fallen, and thus exclaimed: ‘Here Troy once stood! here,

by misfortune, not by cowardice, was I despoiled of all the glory I had

acquired! Here did I feel the vicissitudes of fortune! here all my

atchievements were eclipsed! and, finally, here fell my fortune, never

more to rise!’ Sancho hearing this effusion, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘it is

the part of a valiant man to bear with patience his sufferings and

adversity, as well as to enjoy his prosperity with good humour. I judge

from my own feeling; for, if I was merry when a governor, I am not

melancholy now that I am a poor squire travelling a-foot; and I have

often heard, that she we call Fortune is a drunken, fickle female, and

so blind withal, that she sees not what she does, and knows not whom she

is abusing, or whom exalting.’—‘Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘thou art

very philosophical, and hast spoke with great discretion, which I know

not where thou hast learned; I can tell thee, however, there is no such

thing as fortune in the whole world; nor do those things which happen,

whether good or evil, proceed from chance, but solely from the

particular providence of Heaven; and hence comes the usual saying, That

every man is the maker of his own fortune. I at least have been the

maker of mine, though not with sufficient prudence, and therefore my

presumptuous hopes miscarried. I ought to have considered that

Rozinante’s weakness could not resist the weight and magnitude of my

adversary’s horse; in a word, I tried my fortune, did what I could,

found myself vanquished and overthrown, and though I lost mine honour, I

neither did nor can forfeit my integrity, and the merit of fulfilling my

promise; while I was a knight-errant valiant and intrepid, my hand and

my performance gave credit to my exploits; and now that I am no more

than a pedestrian squire, my word shall be confirmed by the

accomplishment of my promise. Make haste, then, friend Sancho, let us

return to our own country, and pass the year of our probation, and

during that term of confinement acquire fresh vigour and virtue, to

resume the never by me forgotten exercise of arms.’—‘Signior,’ answered

the squire, ‘the pastime of trudging a-foot is not quite so pleasant, as

to move and instigate me to travel a great pace; let us leave these arms

of yours, hanging like a malefactor on some tree; and then I, occupying

the back of Dapple, with my feet no longer in the mire, we may travel

just as your worship shall desire or demand; but, to think that I can

make long marches a-foot, is a vain supposition.’—‘Thou art in the

right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘let my arms be suspended in form

of a trophy; and beneath, or around them, we will engrave upon the tree,

an inscription like that which appeared under the armour of Orlando—

‘“Let him alone these arms displace,

Who dares Orlando’s fury face.”’

‘A most excellent device!’ cried the squire; ‘and if it were not that we

should feel the want of him in our journey, it would not be amiss to

hang up Rozinante at the same time.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied Don

Quixote, ‘neither Rozinante nor my arms will I suffer to be hung up; for

it shall never be said of me, that a good service met with a bad

remuneration.’—‘Your worship talks very much to the purpose,’ said

Sancho; ‘for according to the opinion of wise men, The pannel ought not

to suffer for the fault of the ass; and since your worship alone was to

blame for the bad success of the last adventure, you ought to punish

yourself only, and not vent your indignation upon your bloody and

already rusted arms, or upon the meekness of Rozinante, or, lastly, upon

the tenderness of my feet, in desiring them to walk at a pace which they

cannot maintain.’

In this conversation, and other such discourse, they passed that whole

day and the next four, without meeting with any incident that could

interrupt their journey: on the fifth, which was a holiday, they entered

a village where they saw a number of people making merry at the gate of

an inn; and when Don Quixote approached, a countryman exclaimed, ‘One of

these gentlemen travellers, who are unacquainted with the parties, shall

decide our wager.’ The knight assuring them he would give his opinion

freely and honestly, as soon as he should be informed of the matter, the

peasant replied, ‘Worthy Signior, this here is the case: One of our

townsmen, who is so fat and bulky that he weighs little less than three

hundred weight, has challenged one of his neighbours, a thin creature,

not half so heavy, to run with him one hundred yards with equal weight.

The match was accordingly made; but when the challenger was asked how

the weight of both should be made equal, he insisted on the other’s

carrying the difference in bars of iron, by which means, Limberham would

be upon a footing with Loggerhead.’—‘By no means,’ cried Sancho,

interposing before his master could answer one word, ‘to me, who have

been lately a governor and a judge, as all the world knows, it belongs

to resolve these doubts, and give my opinion in every dispute.’—‘Speak,

then, in happy time, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘for my judgment

is so confounded and disturbed, that I am hardly fit to throw crumbs to

a cat.’ With this permission, Sancho addressing himself to the peasants,

who had assembled around him, and waited his decision with open mouths,

‘Brothers,’ said he, ‘the demand of Loggerhead will not hold water, and

is indeed without the least shadow of justice; for if what all the world

says be true, namely, that the challenged party has the choice of the

weapons, it is not reasonable that the said Loggerhead should pretend to

chuse such arms as will encumber his adversary, and secure the victory

to himself; it is therefore my opinion, that Loggerhead, the challenger,

shall scrape, shave, pare, polish, slice, and take away, one hundred and

fifty pounds weight of his own individual flesh from different parts of

his body, according to his own fancy and convenience; so that, leaving

the other moiety, which will be sufficient to counterbalance his

antagonist, the parties may run with equal advantage.’—‘’Fore God!’

cried one of the countrymen, hearing this wise decision, ‘the gentleman

has spoken like a saint, and given sentence like a canon; but, sure I

am, Loggerhead will not part with an ounce, much less one hundred and

fifty pounds of his flesh.’—‘The best part of the joke,’ replied another

peasant, ‘is, that the match cannot be run; for Limberham will not touch

a bar of iron, and Loggerhead will not pare himself; let us therefore

spend the half of the money in treating these gentlemen at the tavern

with some of the best wine; and, when it rains, let the shower fall upon

my cloak.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I thank you for your

invitation, but I really cannot tarry a moment; for melancholy thoughts

and unlucky adventures oblige me to appear uncivil on this occasion, and

to travel faster than the ordinary pace.’ So saying, he clapped spurs to

Rozinante, and set on; leaving them astonished in consequence of having

seen and observed the strange figure of the master, and the sagacity of

the servant, for such they supposed Sancho to be. One of them could not

help saying, ‘If the servant is so wise, what must the master be? I’ll

lay a wager if they go to study at Salamanca, they will in a trice be

created alcaldes of the court; for it is nothing but children’s play,

studying and poring, and having interest and good luck: and when a man

thinks least about the matter, he finds himself with a white rod in his

hand, or a mitre upon his head.’

That night our adventurer and his squire passed in the middle of an open

field, under the spacious cope of heaven; and next day, proceeding on

their journey, they saw coming towards them a man on foot, with a

javelin or half-pike in his hand, and a wallet on his back;

circumstances from which they judged he was a post or courier. As he

advanced he quickened his pace, and running to Don Quixote, embraced his

right thigh, for he could reach no higher, exclaiming, with marks of

extraordinary satisfaction, ‘O my good Signior Don Quixote! how will the

heart of my lord duke be rejoiced when he knows your worship is

returning to his castle, where he still continues with my lady

duchess!’—‘Friend,’ said the knight, ‘I do not recollect your features,

nor do I know who you are, unless you will be pleased to tell

me.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the courier, ‘I am my lord duke’s

lacquey Tosilos, who refused to fight with your worship concerning the

marriage of the duenna’s daughter.’—‘God in heaven protect me!’ cried

the knight, ‘is it possible that you are he whom my enemies the

enchanters transformed into that same lacquey you mention, to deprive me

of the glory of that combat?’—‘No more of that, worthy Signior,’ replied

the post; ‘there was no inchantment in the case, nor any sort of

transformation; I was as much the lacquey Tosilos when I entered the

lists, as when I left them. I thought the girl handsome, and therefore

would have married her without fighting, but the event did not answer my

expectation. Your worship was no sooner gone from the castle, than my

lord duke ordered me to be severely bastinadoed, for having contradicted

the instructions he had given me before I entered the lists; and this is

the upshot of the whole affair: the girl is by this time a nun, Donna

Rodriguez is gone back to Castile, and I am now bound for Barcelona with

a packet of letters from his grace to the viceroy. If your worship is

inclined to take a small draught of good wine, though not very cool, I

have here a calabash full of the best, and some slices of Tronchon

cheese, which will serve as provocatives and rouzers of thirst, if

perchance it should be asleep.’—‘Your invitation is accepted,’ cried

Sancho; ‘truce with your compliments and skink away, honest Tosilos,

maugre and in despite of all the inchanters of the Indies.’—‘Verily,

Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou art the most insatiate glutton in the

universe, and the most ignorant animal upon earth: but, as thou art not

persuaded that this courier is inchanted, and no other than a

counterfeit Tosilos, thou mayst tarry along with him and fill thy belly,

and I will jog on at a slow pace until thou shalt overtake me.’ The

lacquey smiled at his infatuation, unsheathed his calabash, unwalletted

his cheese, and producing a small loaf, he and Sancho sat down upon the

grass, where in peace and harmony they dispatched and discussed the

contents of the wallet with great perseverance and good-will, and even

licked the packet, because it smelled of cheese. During the repast,

Tosilos said to the squire, ‘Doubtless, friend Sancho, thy master is

bankrupt in common-sense.’—‘How, bankrupt!’ answered Panza; ‘he owes no

man a farthing, but pays like a prince, especially where madness is the

current coin; I see the matter plain enough, and tell him my opinion

freely: but to what purpose? Now, indeed, he is going home in despair,

for having been vanquished by the Knight of the White Moon.’ Tosilos

earnestly begged he would recount that adventure; but Sancho declined

the talk, observing, that it would be unmannerly to let his master wait

for him; though at their next meeting he should have more leisure. He

accordingly started up, and shaking the crumbs from his garment and

beard, bade adieu to Tosilos; then driving Dapple before him, soon came

up with his master, whom he found waiting for him under the shade of a

tree.

CHAP. XV.

OF THE RESOLUTION WHICH DON QUIXOTE TOOK TO BECOME A SHEPHERD,

AND LEAD A PASTORAL LIFE

UNTIL THE TERM OF HIS CONFINEMENT SHOULD BE ELAPSED—

WITH OTHER INCIDENTS TRULY ENTERTAINING.

If Don Quixote was perplexed with cogitation before his overthrow, much

more was he fatigued by his own thoughts after his late misfortune.

Under the shade of a tree, as we have already observed, did he remain,

and there he was stung with reflections that swarmed like flies about

honey; some dwelling upon the disinchantment of Dulcinea, and others

revolving plans for the life he was to lead in his compulsive

retirement. When Sancho joined him, and began to expatiate upon the

liberal disposition of Tosilos, ‘Is it possible, O Sancho,’ said the

knight, ‘that thou still believest that man to be the individual

lacquey? One would think thou hadst forgot that thy own eyes have seen

Dulcinea converted and transformed into a country wench, and the Knight

of the Mirrours into the Bachelor Carrasco, by the wicked arts of those

inchanters who persecute my virtue. But, tell me now didst thou ask

Tosilos how Providence hath disposed of Altisidora? Hath she bewailed my

absence, or already consigned to oblivion those amorous thoughts by

which she was tormented during my residence at the castle?’—‘My

thoughts,’ answered Sancho, ‘were not such as allowed me to ask these

childish questions. Body O me! Signior, is your worship at present in a

condition to enquire about other people’s thoughts, especially those you

call amorous?’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘you must consider there is a

wide difference between the suggestions of love, and those of gratitude:

a gentleman may very well be insensible to love; but, strictly speaking,

he can never be ungrateful. Altisidora, in all appearance, loved me to

distraction: she, as thou very well knowest, made me a present of three

night-caps; she bewailed my departure, loaded me with curses and

reproach, and, in spite of maiden shame, complained of me in publick;

undoubted proofs of my being the object of her adoration; for the

indignation of lovers usually vents itself in maledictions. I had no

hopes to give, nor treasures to offer; all my affections are yielded to

Dulcinea; and the treasures of knights-errant are like those of the

fairies, altogether phantom and illusion: all, therefore, that I can

return, is a kind remembrance, without prejudice, however, to the memory

of Dulcinea, who is greatly aggrieved by thy remissness in delaying to

scourge and chastise that flesh which I hope will be a prey to the

wolves; seeing thou seemed more inclined to reserve it for the worms,

than to use it in behalf of that poor distressed lady.’—‘Signior,’

answered the squire, ‘if the truth must be told, I cannot persuade

myself that the whipping of my posteriors can have any effect in

disenchanting those who are inchanted, no more than if we should anoint

the shins to cure the head-ache; at least, I will venture to swear that

in all the histories your worship has read concerning knight-errantry,

you have never found that any person was disinchanted by such a

whipping: but be that as it may, I will lay it on when I have time,

convenience, and inclination, to make free with my own flesh.’—‘God

grant thou mayst,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and Heaven give thee grace to

understand and be sensible of the obligation thou liest under, to assist

my mistress; who, as thou art mine, is thine also.’

With such conversation they amused themselves in travelling, until they

arrived at the very spot where they had been overturned by the bulls;

when Don Quixote recognizing the ground, ‘This is the meadow,’ said he,

‘where we met the gay shepherdesses and gallant swains, who sought to

renew and re-act the pastoral Arcadia, a project equally original and

ingenious; in imitation of which, shouldst thou approve of the scheme,

we will assume the garb and employment of shepherds during the term of

our retirement. I will purchase some sheep, together with all the

necessary implements of a pastoral life, and taking the name of

Quixotiz, while thou shalt bear that of the swain Pancino; we will

stroll about through mountains, woods, and meadows, singing here,

lamenting there, drinking liquid chrystal from the gelid springs, the

limpid rills, and mighty rivers. The lofty oaks will shed upon us

abundance of their delightful fruit; the trunks of hardest cork trees

will yield us seats; the willows will afford us shade; the rose perfume;

the extended meadow, carpets of a thousand dyes; the pure serenity of

air will give us breath; the moon and stars will grant us light in spite

of darkness; our singing will inspire delight; our lamentations, mirth;

Apollo, verses; and Love himself, conceits to render us immortal and

renowned, not only in the present age, but also to the latest

posterity.’—‘Odds tens!’ cried Sancho, ‘such a life will square, aye,

and be the very corner-stone of my wishes: the Batchelor Sampson

Carrasco and Master Nicholas the barber, as soon as they have a glimpse

of it, will wish to join us in the scheme, and turn shepherds for our

company; and God grant that the curate himself may not take it in his

head to enter the fold; for he is a merry companion, and a great friend

to good fellowship.’—‘Thou hast a very good notion,’ said the knight;

‘and if the batchelor shall be inclined to join our pastoral

association, as he doubtless will, he may take the appellation of the

shepherd Sansonino, or of the swain Carrascon: Nicholas the barber may

be called Niculoso, as old Boscan called himself Nemoroso: and as for

the curate, I know not what title we can confer upon him, except some

derivative from his own name, such as the shepherd Curiambro. For the

nymphs of whom we must be enamoured, there is plenty of names to chuse;

but seeing that of my mistress will suit as well with a shepherdess as

with a princess, I need not give myself the trouble to invent any other

that might be more proper; as for thee, Sancho, thou mayest give thy

mistress what appellation will please thy own fancy.’—‘I have no

intention,’ replied the squire, ‘to give her any other than that of

Teresona, which will fit her fatness to an hair, as well as be agreeable

to her own name Teresa; especially as in celebrating her in verse, I

shall disclose my chaste desires, without going in search of fine bread

in a neighbour’s house: the curate would be in the wrong to chuse a

shepherdess, because he ought to set a good example to his flock; and as

for the batchelor, if he has any such inclination, Let him please his

own soul, without lett or controul.’

‘Good Heaven! friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what a life shall we

lead! how will our ears be regaled with pipes and bagpipes of Zamora,

tambourines, timbrels, and rebecks! and if these different kinds of

musick be reinforced with the sound of the albogues, we shall have a

full concert of all the pastoral instruments.’—‘And pray what are the

albogues?’ said Sancho, ‘I never saw nor heard them named before, in the

whole course of my life.’—‘Albogues,’ answered the knight, ‘are plates

of brass resembling candlesticks, the hollow parts of which being

clashed together produce a sound, if not ravishing or harmonious, at

least not disagreeable nor unsuited to the rusticity of the bagpipe and

tabor. The name of _albogues_ is Moorish, as are all the words in our

language beginning with _al_; for example, _almoaca_, _almorcar_,

_alhombra_, _alguazil_, _alucima_, _almacen_, _alcanzia_, and a few

others; and we have only three Moorish words ending in _i_, namely,

_borcegui_, _zaquicami_, and _maravedi_; as for _alheli_ and _alsaqui_,

they are known to be Arabick, as well from their beginning with _al_, as

for their ending in _i_: these observations I have made, by the bye, in

consequence of having mentioned _albogues_, which recalled them to my

remembrance. But, to return to our scheme, nothing will conduce so much

to the perfection of it, as my having a talent for versification, as

thou very well knowest, and the batchelor’s being an excellent poet. Of

the curate I shall say nothing; though I would lay a good wager that his

collars and points are truly poetical: and that Master Nicholas is in

the same fashion I do not at all doubt; for people of his profession are

famous for making ballads and playing on the guittar. For my own part, I

will complain of absence; thou wilt extol the constancy of thy own love;

the swain Carrascon will lament the disdain of his mistress; the curate

Curiambro chuse his own subject; and every thing proceed in such a

manner as to fulfil the warmest wishes.’

To this effusion Sancho replied, ‘Verily, Signior, I am such an unlucky

wretch, that I am afraid the time will never come when I shall see

myself in that blessed occupation. O what delicate wooden spoons shall I

make when I am a shepherd! O what crumbs and cream shall I devour! O

what garlands and pastoral nick-nacks shall I contrive! and though these

may not, perhaps, add much to my reputation for wisdom, they will not

fail to convince the world of my ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica shall

bring our victuals to the fold; but ’ware mischief! the wench is buxom,

and there are some shepherds more knavish than simple; I would not have

her come out for wool and go home shorn. Those same amours, and unruly

desires, are gratified in the open field as well as in the city chamber,

in a shepherd’s cot as well as in a royal palace. The sin will cease

when the temptation is removed; The heart will not grieve for what the

eye does not perceive; and, What prayers ne’er can gain, a leap from a

hedge will obtain.’ ‘No more of your proverbs, Sancho,’ said Don

Quixote; ‘any one of those thou hast repeated is sufficient to explain

thy meaning; and I have often exhorted thee to be less prodigal of old

saws, and keep them more under command; but, I see, it is like preaching

to the desart: and My mother whips me, and I scourge the top.’—‘Under

correction,’ answered the squire, ‘your worship, methinks, is like the

frying-pan which called to the pot, “Avaunt black-a-moor, avaunt!” Even

in the very act of rebuking me for uttering proverbs, your worship

strings them together in pairs.’—‘But, then, you must consider, Sancho,’

said Don Quixote, ‘that when I use them, they are seasonably brought in,

and fit the purpose as the ring fits the finger: whereas, by thee, they

are not brought in, but lugged in, as it were, by the head and

shoulders. If my memory fails me not, I have formerly told thee, that

proverbs are short sentences extracted from the experience and

speculation of ancient sages; and a proverb unseasonably introduced, is

rather an absurdity than a judicious apothegm. But let us quit the

subject, and, as the day is already spent, retire from the highway to

some place where we may pass the night; for God alone knows what will be

to-morrow.’

They accordingly retired to a grove, where they made a late and very

indifferent supper, to the no small mortification of Sancho, who

ruefully reflected upon the meagre commons of chivalry, so uncomfortably

discussed among woods and mountains; though his imagination was also

regaled with the remembrance of that abundance which he had enjoyed at

the castle, as well as at the wedding of the rich Camacho, and in the

houses of Don Diego de Miranda, and Don Antonio de Moreno: but, finally,

considering it could not be always day, or always night, he resolved,

for the present, to sleep, while his master indulged his contemplations

awake.

CHAP. XVI.

OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE WAS INVOLVED.

The night was a little dark; for, although the moon was in the heavens,

she was invisible to the people of our hemisphere, Madam Diana having

taken a trip to the Antipodes, and left our mountains obumbrated and our

vallies obscured.

Don Quixote, in compliance with nature, enjoyed his first sleep without

indulging himself in a second, quite contrary to the practice of Sancho,

who never desired a second, because the first always lasted from night

till morning; a sure sign of little care, and an excellent constitution.

As for the knight, his cares interfered so much with his repose, that he

wakened his squire, to whom he said, ‘I am amazed, Sancho, at the

indifference of thy disposition, and imagine thou art made of marble or

obdurate brass, unsusceptible of sentiment or emotion. I watch whilst

thou art snoring; I weep whilst thou art singing; I faint with fasting,

whilst thou art overloaded and out of breath with eating! It is the

province of a good servant to sympathize with his master’s pain, and to

share his anguish, even for the sake of decorum. Observe the serenity of

the sky and the solitude of the place, which invite us to make an

intermission in our repose. I conjure thee, by thy life, to rise and go

aside to some proper place, where, with good will and grateful

inclination, thou mayest conveniently inflict upon thyself three or four

hundred stripes, on account of Dulcinea’s inchantment; and this favour I

humbly request, without any intention to try again the strength of thine

arms, which I know to be heavy and robust: after the performance of that

task, we will pass the remainder of the night in harmony; I, in singing

the torments of absence, and thou, in chanting the constancy of thy

passion; and thus will we begin the pastoral life which we are to lead

at our own village.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘I am no monk, to

rise and discipline my flesh in the middle of the night; nor do I think

the extremity of pain is such a provocative to musick; I therefore

desire your worship will let me take out my nap, without pressing me

farther to scourge myself, lest I should grow desperate, and solemnly

swear never to whip the nap of my garment, much less an hair of my

skin.’—‘Soul of a savage! flinty-hearted squire!’ cried Don Quixote: ‘O

ill-bestowed bread! O ill-requited benefits, intended or conferred! By

my means wast thou created governor; and through me alone dost thou now

enjoy the near prospect of being a count, or something else of equal

title; nor will the accomplishment of thy wishes be retarded longer than

the term of one fleeting year; for, _Post tenebras spero lucem_.’—‘Your

conclusion,’ said Sancho, ‘I do not understand; but well I know, that

while I sleep, I am troubled neither with fear nor hope, nor toil nor

glory; and praise be to him who invented sleep, which is the mantle that

shrouds all human thoughts; the food that dispels hunger; the drink that

quenches thirst; the fire that warms the cold; the cool breeze that

moderates heat; in a word, the general coin that purchases every

commodity; the weight and balance that makes the shepherd even with his

sovereign, and the simple with the sage: there is only one bad

circumstance, as I have heard, in sleep, it resembles death; inasmuch as

between a dead corpse and a sleeping man there is no apparent

difference.’—‘Truly, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I never heard thee talk

so elegantly before, whence I perceive the truth of the proverb which

thou hast often repeated, Not he with whom you was bred, but he by whom

you are fed.’—‘Odds my life! Sir master of mine,’ cried Sancho, ‘I am

not the only person who strings proverbs: they fall from your worship’s

mouth in couples, faster than from mine; indeed, there is some

difference; for your worship’s proverbs come at a proper time, whereas

mine are always out of season; but, nevertheless, they are all

proverbs.’

Thus far the conversation had proceeded, when they heard a dull confused

noise, intermingled with very harsh sounds, that seemed to extend

through the whole valley. The knight immediately started up and

unsheathed his sword; while the squire squatted down under Dapple,

fencing himself on each side with his master’s armour and the pannel of

the ass, being as much afraid as Don Quixote was astonished; for the

noise increased every moment, as the cause of it approached the two

tremblers, or rather one trembler, for the other’s valour and courage

are well known. The case, in fact, was this: some dealers were driving

about six hundred hogs to a fair; and, as they travelled in the night,

the noise of their feet, together with their grunting and blowing, made

such a din, as almost deafened Don Quixote and Sancho, who could not

conceive the meaning of such an uproar. Meanwhile, the numerous grunting

herd advanced; and, without shewing the least respect to the authority

of Don Quixote or Sancho, ran over them in a twinkling, demolished the

barricadoes of the squire, and trampled down not only the master, but

also his steed Rozinante; the thronging, the grunting, and the hurry of

those unclean animals, throwing every thing in confusion, and strewing

the master and the man, the horse and the ass, the pannel and the

armour, along the ground. Sancho, getting up as well as he could,

demanded his master’s sword, in order to sacrifice half a dozen of those

discourteous gentlemen porkers; for by this time he had discovered what

they were; but the knight refused to grant his request, saying, ‘Let

them pass, friend Sancho; this affront is the punishment of my crime;

and the just chastisement of Heaven inflicted upon a vanquished knight,

is, that he shall be devoured by dogs, stung by wasps, and trampled upon

by swine.’—‘At that rate, then,’ replied the squire, ‘the chastisement

which Heaven inflicts upon squires of vanquished knight-errants, is,

that they shall be bitten by fleas, devoured by lice, and assaulted by

famine: if we squires were sons of the knights we serve, or even their

near relations, it would be no great wonder if the punishment of our

faults should overtake us to the fourth generation: but what affinity is

there between the Panzas and the Quixotes? At present let us put things

to rights again, so that we may sleep out the remainder of the night,

and we shall be in better plight when God sends us a new day.’—‘Enjoy

thy repose,’ said Don Quixote; ‘thou wast born to sleep and I to watch;

and during the little of night that remains, I will give my thoughts the

rein, and cool the furnace of my reflections with a short madrigal,

which I have this evening, unknown to thee, composed in my own

mind.’—‘In my opinion,’ answered the squire, ‘your thoughts could not be

very troublesome and unruly, if they gave you leisure to make couplets;

but, however, your worship may couple as many as you please, and I will

sleep as much as I can.’ So saying, he chose his ground, on which he

huddled himself up, and enjoyed a most profound sleep, which received no

interruption from the remembrance of debt, surety, or any other

grievance. As for Don Quixote, he leaned against a beech or cork-tree;

for Cid Hamet Benengeli has not distinguished the genus; and, to the

musick of his own sighs, sung the following stanzas.

I.

‘O cruel love! when I endure

The dreadful vengeance of thy bow,

I fly to death, the only cure

For such immensity of woe.

II.

‘But, when I touch the peaceful goal,

That port secure from storms of strife,

The fight revives my drooping soul,

I cannot enter for my life!

III.

‘Thus life exhausts my vital flame,

But death still keeps the spark alive;

O wond’rous fate! unknown to fame!

That life should kill, and death revive.’

Every verse he accompanied with a multitude of sighs and a torrent of

tears, as if his heart had been transpierced with grief for his

overthrow and the absence of Dulcinea. In this situation he was found by

the day, when Phœbus darting his rays into Sancho’s eyes, the squire

awoke, yawned, turned, stretched his lazy limbs, and surveying the

havock which the swine had made in his store, he bitterly cursed the

whole herd; aye, and even went farther with his maledictions.

Then the two proceeded in their journey; and, towards the close of the

afternoon, descried about ten men on horseback, and half that number on

foot, advancing towards them; a sight which made the knight’s heart

throb with surprize, and the squire’s with terror; for this company was

armed with lance and target, and approached in a very hostile manner.

Don Quixote turning to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘if I could now

exercise my arms, and my hands were not tied by a solemn promise, I

would look upon that machine, which comes upon us, with contempt, as so

much cake and gingerbread; but, perhaps, it may be something else than

we apprehend.’ He had scarce pronounced these words, when the horsemen

coming up, and couching their lances, surrounded him in a trice; then

clapping the points of their weapons to his back and breast, seemed to

threaten immediate death and destruction; while one of those on foot,

laying his finger on his mouth, as a signal for him to be silent, seized

Rozinante’s bridle, and led him out of the highway. The rest of the

footpads drove Sancho and Dapple before them, and, while a wonderful

silence prevailed, followed the knight, who attempted twice or thrice to

ask whither they conducted him, and what they wanted; but scarce had he

began to move his lips when they threatened to shut them for ever with

the points of their spears. The same menaces were practiced upon Sancho,

who no sooner expressed a desire to be talking, than he was pricked in

the posteriors with a goad by one of his attendants; and Dapple met with

the same fate, as if he too had made a motion to speak, like his master.

As night approached they quickened their pace, and the terrors of the

captives increased in proportion as the darkness deepened, especially as

their guard pronounced from time to time, ‘Dispatch, ye Troglodytes!

silence, ye Barbarians! now ye shall suffer, ye Antropophagi! not a word

of complaint, ye Scythians! open not your eyes, ye murderous

Polyphemuses! ye carnivorous lions and beasts of prey.’ With these and

other such appellations, they tormented the ears of the miserable master

and the forlorn Sancho, who said within himself, ‘Draggle doits! Barber

Anns! Henry puff a Jay! City hens! and Paulfamouses! these are fine

names with a vengeance! I’m afraid this is a bad wind for winnowing our

corn! the mischief comes upon us altogether, like drubbing to a dog; and

I wish this misventrous adventure, that threatens so dismally, may end

in nothing worse!’ As for Don Quixote, he was utterly astonished and

confounded; nor could he, with all his reflection, comprehend the

meaning of his own captivity, and those reproachful terms, from which he

could only conclude, that no good but a great deal of mischief was to be

expected. In this state of anxious suspense he continued till about an

hour after it was dark, when they arrived at a castle; which the knight

immediately recognizing to be the duke’s habitation, where he had so

lately resided, ‘Good Heaven!’ cried he, ‘where will this adventure end!

surely this is the dwelling place of politeness and hospitality; but to

those who are vanquished, good is converted into bad, and bad to worse.’

This ejaculation he uttered as they entered the court of the castle,

which was decorated in a strange manner that increased their admiration,

and redoubled their fear, as will be seen in the following chapter.

CHAP. XVII.

OF THE MOST SINGULAR AND STRANGEST ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO DON

QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

The horsemen alighting, with the assistance of those who were on foot,

snatched up the bodies of Don Quixote and Sancho, and carried them

hastily into the court of the castle, round which above a hundred

flaming torches were placed, and the corridores of the court were

illuminated by five hundred tapers, shining with such a blaze, that, in

spite of the night, which was dark, there was no want of the day. In the

middle of the court appeared a monument raised about two yards from the

ground, and covered with a spacious canopy of black velvet; and, upon

the steps that led up to it, above a hundred tapers of virgin wax stood

burning in silver candlesticks. On the tomb lay the body of a young

damsel, whose beauty was such as rendered death itself beautiful; her

head was raised on a cushion of brocade, and crowned with a garland of

various odoriferous flowers; and in her hands, that were crossed upon

her breast, appeared a bough of green victorious palm. On one side of

the court was erected a theatre, on which were seated two personages,

whom their crowns and sceptres declared to be either real or fictitious

kings; and hard by the theatre, which was furnished with steps, two

other chairs, upon which Don Quixote and Sancho were seated by their

captors, who still maintained their former silence, the observance of

which they likewise recommended, by signs, to our hero and his squire;

though these injunctions were altogether superfluous; for their

astonishment at what they saw, had effectually tied their tongues; and,

indeed, how could they help being astonished at sight of this apparatus!

considering, too, that by this time the knight had discovered the dead

body on the tomb to be no other than the beauteous Altisidora? At this

juncture, two noble personages, with a numerous retinue, ascended the

theatre, and seated themselves in magnificent chairs, hard by the

figures that were crowned; then Don Quixote and Sancho, perceiving the

new comers to be their former entertainers, the duke and duchess, rose

up and bowed with great veneration, and their graces, rising also,

returned the compliment with a slight inclination of the head. And now

an officer crossing the court, and approaching Sancho, threw over him a

robe of black buckram, painted all over with flames of fire; at the same

time pulling off his cap, he put upon his head one of those pasteboard

mitres which are worn by the penitents of the holy office; and in a

whisper advised him to keep his lips fast sewed together, unless he had

a mind to be gagged or put to death without mercy. Sancho surveyed

himself from head to foot, and saw his robe in flames; but as they did

not burn, he valued them not a farthing; then he took off his mitre, and

perceiving it figured with pictures of fiends, set it on his head again,

saying to himself, ‘As the flames do not burn, and the fiends do not fly

away with me, I am very well satisfied.’ Don Quixote likewise surveyed

the squire; and, although his reflection was still disturbed with fear

and suspense, could not help smiling at the ludicrous figure.

Sancho being thus equipped, a low yet agreeable sound of flutes seemed

to issue from beneath the tomb, and being uninterrupted by any human

voice, for here silence itself kept silence, produced a very soft and

pleasing melody. Then all of a sudden, a beautiful youth, in a Roman

habit, appeared close by the cushion on which the seemingly dead body

reposed, and to the sound of the harp on which he himself played, with a

sweet harmonious voice he sung the two following stanzas—

I.

‘Till fair Altisidora, slain

By Quixote’s cruelty, return;

And all th’ inchanted female train

Her hapless fate in sack-cloth mourn;

Until duennas clad in baize

Appear in presence of her grace,

I’ll celebrate the nymph in lays

That would not shame the bard of Thrace.

II.

‘Nor shall thy beauty fade unsung,

When life forsakes my gelid veins;

My clay-cold lips and frozen tongue,

In death shall raise immortal strains.

My soul when freed from cumb’rous clay,

Her flight o’er Stygian waves shall take;

And while on Lethe’s banks I stray,

My song shall charm th’ oblivious lake.’

Here he was interrupted by one of the two pretended kings; who

said—‘Enough, divine songster! it would be an infinite task to describe

the death and beauties of the peerless Altisidora, not dead as the

ignorant world imagines, but alive in the voice of fame, and in the

penance which Sancho Panza here present must undergo, in order to

restore her to the light she has lost; and therefore, O Rhadamanthus!

who sittest with me in judgment, within the gloomy caverns of Lethe, as

thou art intimately acquainted with all the determinations of the

inscrutable fates, touching the revival of this damsel, relate and

declare them without loss of time, that we may no longer delay that

happiness which we expect from her recovery.’

Scarce had Minos pronounced these words, when his fellow-judge and

companion Rhadamanthus stood up, saying—‘So ho! ye ministers of this

house, high and low, great and small, come hither one by one, and mark

the face, the arms, and loins of Sancho, with two dozen of tweaks, one

dozen of pinches, and half a dozen pricks with a pin; for upon this

execution depends the revival of Altisidora.’ Sancho Panza hearing this

sentence, broke silence, and exclaimed aloud—‘I vow to God, I will

sooner turn Turk, than allow my face to be marked or my flesh to be

handled in any such manner. Body o’ me! what has the pinching of my face

to do with the resurrection of that damsel. The old woman has got a

liquorish tooth, forsooth, and she is still licking her fingers.

Dulcinea is inchanted, and I must be scourged for the disinchantment of

her ladyship: Altisidora is dead by the hand of God, and in order to

bring her to life, I must suffer two dozen of tweaks, my body must be

pinked into a sieve with large pins, and my arms pinched into all the

colours of the rainbow! Such jokes may pass upon a brother-in-law; but I

am an old dog, and will not be coaxed with a crust.’—‘Then thou shalt

die,’ cried Rhadamanthus with an audible voice. ‘Tame that savage heart

of thine, thou tyger; humble thyself, thou proud Nimrod! suffer and be

silent. We ask not impossibilities, and therefore thou must not pretend

to examine the difficulties of this affair: tweaked thou shalt be;

pinked shalt thou find thyself, and pinched until thy groans declare

thine anguish.—So ho! I say, ye ministers! execute my command, or by the

faith of an honest man, you shall see for what you were born!’

In consequence of this summons, six duennas came walking through the

court yard in procession, one by one, the four first with spectacles,

and each with her right-arm raised, about four inches of the wrist being

bared according to the present fashion, that the hand may seem the

larger. Sancho no sooner beheld these matrons, than he began to bellow

like a bull; exclaiming—‘I might have allowed myself to be handled by

all the world besides, but that duennas should touch me I will by no

means consent! they may cat-claw my face, as my master was served in

this very castle; they may run me through the guts with daggers of

steel; they may tear the flesh off my arms with red-hot pincers; all

these tortures will I bear patiently, for the service of these noble

persons: but I say again, the devil shall fly away with me before I

suffer a duenna to lay a finger on my carcase!’ Then Don Quixote

addressing himself to Sancho, broke silence in these terms—‘Exert thy

patience, my son, for the satisfaction of these noble personages, and

give thanks to Heaven, which hath indued thy person with such virtue,

that by the martyrdom of thy flesh, the inchanted are delivered from

inchantment, and even the dead revived.’

By this time the duennas had surrounded Sancho; who, being softened and

persuaded, seated himself in a proper posture, and held out his face and

beard to the first, who treated him with a well-planted twitch, and then

dropped a profound curtsey. ‘Less courtesy, less anointing, good Madam

Duenna,’ cried the squire; ‘for, by the Lord, your fingers smack of

vinegar!’ In a word, he was tweaked by all the duennas, and pinched by a

great number of other persons belonging to the family: but what he could

by no means be brought to endure, was the puncture with pins, which they

no sooner began to perform, than starting up in a rage, and seizing a

lighted torch that stood near him, he assaulted the duennas, and all the

rest of his executioners, crying—‘Avaunt, ye ministers of hell! I am not

made of brass, to be insensible to such torture.’ At this instant,

Altisidora, who must have been tired with lying so long upon her back,

turned herself on one side; and this motion was no sooner perceived by

the spectators, than all of them exclaimed, as if with one voice,

‘Altisidora moves! Altisidora lives!’ Then Rhadamanthus desired Sancho

to lay aside his indignation, seeing the intended aim was already

accomplished.

Don Quixote seeing Altisidora stirring, fell upon his knees before

Sancho, saying—‘Now is the time, dear son of my bowels, and no longer my

squire! now is the time to inflict upon thyself some of those lashes

thou art obliged to undergo for the disinchantment of Dulcinea. This, I

say, is the time, when thy virtue is seasoned, and of efficacy

sufficient to perform the cure which we expect from thy compliance.’ To

this apostrophe the squire replied—‘This is reel upon reel, and not

honey upon pancakes; scourging, to be sure, is a very agreeable dessert

to a dish of twitches, pinches, and pin-prickings. There is no more to

be done, but to take and tie a great stone about my neck, and toss me

into a well; it will be much better for me to die at once, than to be

always the wedding-heifer, to remedy the misfortunes of other people:

either let me live in peace! or, before God, all shall out, sell or not

sell.’

By this time Altisidora sat upright on the tomb, and at that instant the

waits beginning to play, were accompanied by the musick of flutes, and

the voices of all the spectators, who acclaimed—‘Live Altisidora!

Altisidora live!’ The duke and duchess, together with Minos and

Rhadamanthus, rising from their seats, and being joined by Don Quixote

and Sancho, went to receive this young lady, and help her in descending

from the tomb; while, they were thus employed, she assumed a languid and

fainting air, and inclining her head towards the duke and duchess and

the two kings, darted a sidelong glance to Don Quixote, saying—‘God

forgive thee, unrelenting knight! by thy cruelty I have been doomed to

remain, as I believe, above a thousand years in the other world! but as

for thee, thou most compassionate squire that this wide earth contains!

I thank thee kindly for that life I now enjoy. From this day, friend

Sancho, thou mayest command six of my shifts to be converted into shirts

for thy own body; and if they are not quite whole, at least they are

white and clean.’ Sancho thanked her for the present, with mitre in hand

and knee on ground; and when the duke ordered his servants to take away

those badges of disgrace, and restore his own cap and coat, the squire

entreated his grace to let him keep the mitre and the flaming robe, and

carry them to his own country, as a mark and memorial of this

incredible, adventure. To this supplication the duchess replied, that he

might keep these testimonials, for he knew how much she was his friend.

The duke ordered the court to be cleared, the company to retire to their

several chambers, and the knight and squire to be conduced to the

apartments which they had formerly occupied.

CHAP. XVIII.

WHICH FOLLOWS THE PRECEDING, AND TREATS OF MATTERS THAT MUST BE

DISCLOSED, IN ORDER TO MAKE THE HISTORY THE MORE INTELLIGIBLE AND

DISTINCT.

Sancho slept that night in a truckle-bed, in the apartment of Don

Quixote; a circumstance which he would have waved, if possible, because

he well knew his master would keep him awake with questions and replies,

and he was not at all in a talkative humour; for the pain of his past

sufferings kept them still present in his fancy, depriving his tongue of

its usual freedom; and he would have much rather slept alone in a hut,

than in the richest chamber thus accompanied. His apprehension was so

true, and his suspicions so just, that scarce had his master committed

his body to the bed, when he accosted the squire in these words: ‘What

is thy opinion, Sancho, of this night’s adventure? Great and powerful is

the force of amorous disdain, as thou hast seen with thy own eyes.

Altisidora dead—not by shaft, or sword, or warlike instrument, or mortal

poison, but solely by the reflection of that rigour and disdain with

which I have always treated her advances.’—‘She might have died in good

time, when and how she thought proper,’ cried Sancho, ‘and left me in

quiet at my own house, seeing I never treated her either with love or

disdain in the whole course of my life; for my own part, I neither know,

nor can I conceive, as I have formerly observed, what the health or life

of such a whimsical girl as Altisidora has to do with the martyrdom of

Sancho Panza: but now at length I can clearly and distinctly perceive,

that this world actually abounds with inchanters and inchantments, from

which I pray God may deliver me, since I cannot deliver myself! in the

mean time, I humbly beseech your worship to let me sleep, without

farther question, if you have not a mind to see me throw myself out of

the window.’—‘Sleep, then, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘if thou

canst enjoy the benefit of slumber after the pinching, twitching, and

pricking thou hast undergone.’—‘No pain is comparable to that of the

twitching,’ replied the squire; ‘for no other reason, but because it was

inflicted by duennas, whom God in heaven confound! I again intreat your

worship to leave me to my repose, for deep is a remedy for those

miseries which we feel when awake.’—‘Be it so,’ said the knight, ‘and

the Lord make thy sleep refreshing!’

While these two are left to their repose, Cid Hamet, author of this

sublime history, takes occasion to explain the motives that induced the

duke and duchess to raise the edifice of the adventure above related. He

says, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco still remembering how, as Knight of

the Mirrours, he had been vanquished and overthrown by Don Quixote, and

his whole design blotted and defaced by that unlucky fall and defeat, he

resolved to try his fortune once more, in hope of meeting with better

success; and learning where the knight was, from the information of the

page who carried the letter and the present to Sancho’s wife Teresa

Panza, he purchased a new suit of armour and a horse, ordered a white

moon to be painted on his shield, and fastened the whole cargo on the

back of an he-mule, which was conducted by a certain ploughman, and not

by his old squire Tom Cecial, lest he should be known by Sancho or Don

Quixote. With this equipage he set out for the duke’s castle, where he

was informed of the knight’s motions and route, together with his

intention to assist at the tournament in Saragossa. His grace likewise

gave him an account of the jokes they had executed upon our adventurer,

with the contrivance of Dulcinea’s disinchantment, to be effected at the

expence of Sancho’s posteriors. Nor did he forget to relate the trick

which Sancho had practised on his master, in making him believe that

Dulcinea was inchanted and transformed into a country-wench; as also how

my lady duchess had persuaded the squire that Dulcinea was really and

truly inchanted and transformed, and he himself the person that was

mistaken and deceived: particulars which afforded abundance of mirth to

the batchelor, who could not help admiring afresh the mixture of

archness and simplicity in Sancho, as well as the unaccountable madness

of Don Quixote. The duke begged he would return that way and communicate

his success, whether he should be vanquished or victor. Sampson, having

promised to comply with his request, set out in quest of our knight;

and, as he did not find him in Saragossa, proceeded to Barcelona, where

he met with the adventure we have already related in its proper place:

then he returned to the duke’s castle, where he gave an account of the

whole engagement, and the conditions of the combat; in consequence of

which Don Quixote was already on his return, to fulfil, like a worthy

knight-errant, the promise he had made to reside at his own habitation

for the term of one year, during which, the batchelor said, he might

possibly be cured of his madness. He declared this was his sole motive

for disguising himself in such a manner, as it was a thousand pities

that a gentleman of Don Quixote’s excellent understanding should

continue under the influence of such infatuation. He accordingly took

his leave of the duke, and returned to his own country, in full hope

that the knight was not far behind.

From this information, his grace took the opportunity to connive this

last adventure, so much was he delighted with the behaviour of Sancho

and Don Quixote. He ordered a great number of his people on horseback

and a-foot, to scour the country far and near, and a patrole through

every road by which he thought the knight could possibly return, with

orders to bring him to the castle, either by fair means or foul.

Accordingly, when they found him, they gave notice to his grace, who

having already pre-concerted what was to be done, no sooner heard of his

coming than he directed that the torches and tapers should be lighted

around the court, and Altisidora placed upon the tomb, together with all

the apparatus already described; which was so naturally and artfully

executed, that it differed very little from the real truth. Nay, Cid

Hamet moreover observes, that he looked upon the jokers to be as mad as

those who were joked; and the duke and duchess to be within

two-fingers-breadth of lunacy, seeing they placed such happiness in

playing pranks upon two confirmed madmen; one of whom the new day found

sleeping at full snore, and the other watching over his disastrous

thoughts, and very impatient to quit his couch; for, whether vanquished

or victor, Don Quixote never took pleasure in lolling on the lazy down.

It was now that Altisidora, who in the knight’s opinion had returned

from death, in compliance with the humour of her lord and lady, entered

his apartment crowned with the same garland she had worn on the tomb,

clad in a robe of white taffety powdered with flowers of gold, her hair

flowing loose upon her shoulders, and supporting herself upon a staff of

fine polished black ebony. This apparition discomposed our hero to such

a degree, that he shrunk within his nest in silent confusion, and almost

covered himself wholly with the sheets, fully determined against making

any return of compliment. Meanwhile, Altisidora sitting down upon a

chair, at his bed’s head, heaved a profound sigh, and thus addressed

herself to him, in a faint and tender tone—‘When women of fashion, and

damsels of reserve, trample upon honour, and give their tongues the

liberty to break through all inconveniences, so as to divulge the

secrets which their hearts conceal, their condition must be desperate

indeed. I am one of those, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; sorely

hampered, vanquished, and enamoured; but withal so patient and modest,

that my soul broke through my silence, and I lost my life: in

consequence of thy rigour, O flinty-hearted knight! more deaf than

marble to my complaints, have I been dead for two days, or at least

supposed to be dead by those who saw me; and if love, in pity to my

fate, had not deposited a remedy in the tortures of that worthy squire,

I should have remained for ever in the other world.’—‘Love,’ said

Sancho, ‘might as well have deposited the remedy in the tortures of my

ass, and I should have thanked him for it heartily: but pray, Madam,

tell me, so may Heaven send you a kinder lover than my master, what did

you see in the other world? What is going forward in hell? for surely

those who die in despair must go to that baiting-place.’—‘To tell you

the truth,’ answered Altisidora, ‘I could not be quite dead, seeing I

did not enter the infernal regions; for, had I been once fairly

introduced, I could not have left the place again, whatever inclination

I might have had to return. The truth is, I went no farther than the

gate, where I saw about a dozen devils playing at tennis, in their

drawers and doublets, having bands edged with Flanders lace, and ruffles

of the same at their wrists, which were naked to the length of four

inches, in order to enlarge the appearance of their hands, in which they

wielded rackets of fire: but what I chiefly admired was, that instead of

balls, they made use of books, which seemed to be filled with wind and

flocks; a circumstance equally new and surprizing! and yet there was

another particular which still increased my astonishment; for, whereas

among the gamesters of this world, it is natural for the winners to be

merry, and for the losers to be sad; in that diabolical pastime, all the

players growled and grumbled, and cursed one another.’—‘That is not to

be wondered at,’ replied the squire; ‘for the devils, play or not play,

win or not win, can never be content.’—‘That must certainly be the

case,’ answered Altisidora; ‘but there was likewise another peculiarity

at which I wonder, I mean, at which I then wondered; namely, that after

the first toss, the ball was useless, and could not be used a second

time; so that they whirled them away, new and old, in a marvellous

manner. On one of these, which was finely gilt and lettered, they

bestowed such a violent stroke, that the guts flew out in scattered

leaves. “What book is that?” said one devil to his fellow. The other

answered, that it was the second part of the history of Don Quixote de

La Mancha, composed not by the original author Cid Hamet, but by an

Arragonian, who calls himself a native of Tordesillas. “Away with it!”

cried the first, “plunge it into the lowest abyss of hell, that mine

eyes may never behold it again.”—“What, is it so bad!” said the second.

“So very bad,” replied the other, “that if I myself had endeavoured to

make it worse, it would not have been in my power.” They proceeded with

their play, driving about the unfortunate books; and I hearing them

mention Don Quixote, whom I love and adore, endeavoured to retain the

vision in my memory.’—‘A vision it must have been, without all doubt,’

said Don Quixote; ‘for there is no other I in the whole world; and as

for that history, it is bandied from hand to hand, without finding a

resting place, and every body has a fling at the author: nor am I in the

least mortified to hear that I wander like a fantastick shadow through

the dark abodes of hell, as well as through the enlightened mansions of

this globe, as I am not the person recorded in that history; which, were

it elegant, faithful, and authentick, would live for ages; but, being

false and execrable as it is, there will be no great distance between

its birth and burial.’

Altisidora was going to proceed with her lamentations, when she was

prevented by the knight; who said, with great solemnity, ‘I have often

told you, Madam, that I am sorry you have placed your affection upon me,

who can make no other return than that of gratitude and thanks; I was

born for Dulcinea del Toboso; and the Fates, if such there be, have

consecrated me for her service; so that to imagine any other beauty

shall ever occupy the place which she possesses in my heart, is to

suppose a mere impossibility. Let this declaration, therefore, undeceive

and prevail upon you to retire within the limits of virtue and decorum,

seeing no man is obliged to perform impossibilities.’ Altisidora, in

consequence of this repulse, assumed an air of indignation, and in an

affected transport of rage, exclaimed, ‘How now, Don Stockfish! soul of

a mortar! stone of a date! more positive and obstinate than a courted

peasant when his harrow hath chanced to hit the mark, by the Lord! if I

once fall upon you, I will tear your eyes out. Hark ye, Don

Beaten-and-cudgelled, are you such a wiseacre as to suppose I died for

love of you? All you have seen this last night was a pure fiction; for I

am not the woman to have a finger ache, much less to die for such a

camel.’—‘O my conscience! I believe what you say,’ cried Sancho; ‘that

of dying for love is a most ridiculous affair: your lovers, indeed, may

easily say they are dying; but that they will actually give up the

ghost, Judas may believe it for me.’

During this conversation, the musician and poet, who had sung the two

stanzas which we have already repeated, came into the apartment, and

made a profound bow to Don Quixote, saying, ‘Sir Knight, I beg you will

esteem and reckon me among the number of your most humble servants; for

many days are elapsed since I have conceived the warmest affection for

your person, from the fame of your character and atchievements.’ When

Don Quixote desired to know who he was, that he might respect him

according to his merit, he answered, that he was the musician and

panegyrist of the preceding night. ‘Assuredly, your voice is extremely

sweet,’ said the knight; ‘but, methinks, the verses you sung were not

much to the purpose; for what affinity is there between the stanzas of

Garcilasso and the death of this young lady?’—‘Your worship must not

wonder at that impropriety,’ answered the musician; ‘it is a common

practice among the beardless poets of this age to write what they will,

and steal from whom they please to pillage, whether it be or be not to

the purpose; and every absurdity that occurs in their singing or

writing, they attribute to the _licentia poetica_.’

Don Quixote’s reply was prevented by the entrance of the duke and

duchess, who came to visit him in his chamber, and a long diverting

conversation ensued, in the course of which Sancho uttered so many

humorous sallies, and satirical jokes, that their graces admired anew

the mixture of his acuteness and simplicity. As for the knight, he

humbly requested that he might be allowed to depart that very day, as it

was much more proper that vanquished knights, like him, should live in

hog-sties than in sumptuous palaces. They graciously complied with his

request; and when the duchess enquired if Altisidora had, as yet,

acquired his good graces, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that

damsel’s distemper wholly proceeds from idleness, which may be easily

cured by continual and decent occupation: she tells me it is the fashion

in hell to wear lace, and as she knows how to make it, let the work

never be out of her hand, which being employed in moving the bobbins,

the idea or ideas of what she loves will no longer move in her

imagination; and this is the truth, the substance of my opinion, and the

marrow of my advice.’—‘Aye, and of mine too,’ cried Sancho; ‘for never

in my born days did I know a lace-maker die for love: the thoughts of

girls employed at that work, run more upon the finishing of their tasks

than upon the idle fancies of love; and, for myself, I can safely say,

that while I am digging in the field, I never so much as dream of my

duck; I mean, my wife Teresa Panza, whom I love as the apple of mine

eye.’—‘You talk like an oracle, Sancho,’ said the duchess: ‘and I will

take care, that, from this day forward, Altisidora shall be employed in

some plain work, which she understands to perfection.’—‘Your ladyship

shall not need to use any such expedient,’ replied Altisidora; ‘for the

consideration of the cruelty with which I have been used by that

felonious monster, will blot him effectually from my remembrance,

without any other assistance; and, in the mean time, with your grace’s

permission, I will retire, that I may no longer have before my eyes—I

will not say his rueful countenance, but his frightful and abominable

aspect.’—‘These reproaches,’ said the duke, ‘put me in mind of the old

observation, that Scolding among lovers is the next neighbour to

forgiveness.’

Altisidora, making a shew of wiping the tears from her eyes with a white

handkerchief, dropped a low curtsey to her lord and lady, and withdrew;

and Sancho sending after her an earnest look, ‘Poor damsel!’ cried he,

‘I can bequeath, bequeath thee nothing, I say, but bad luck, seeing thou

hast placed thine affection upon a soul of rush, and an heart of oak:

had it lighted upon me, another sort of a cock would have crowned thy

fortune.’

Thus the conversation ended, Don Quixote put on his cloaths, dined with

the duke and duchess, and set out that same evening for his own

habitation.

CHAP. XIX.

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, IN THEIR JOURNEY TO

THEIR OWN VILLAGE.

The perplexed and vanquished Don Quixote travelled along, extremely

chagrined on one account, though greatly rejoiced on another: his

melancholy was occasioned by his overthrow, and his joy produced from

the consideration of that virtue inherent in his squire, which he had

seen demonstrated in the resurrection of Altisidora, though he had some

scruples in persuading himself that the enamoured damsel was actually

dead. As for Sancho, he felt no sort of pleasure; but, on the contrary,

was much mortified to find that Altisidora had failed in performing her

promise touching the present of the shifts; and his imagination dwelling

upon this circumstance, he said to his master—‘Truly, Signior, I must

certainly be the most unfortunate physician that ever lived upon the

earth, in which there are many leeches, who, though they kill their

patients, insist upon being paid for their trouble, which, by the bye,

is no more than writing and signing a list of medicines upon a scrap of

paper; for the apothecary makes up the prescription, and so the farce is

acted; whereas, I receive not a doit, though I cure other people’s

maladies at the expence of pinches, twitches, pin-pricks, lashes, and

drops of blood; but, I vow to God! if any other patient is put into my

hands, they shall be well anointed before I undertake the cure; for, The

abbot chants but to supply his wants: and I cannot believe that Heaven

hath bestowed such virtue upon me, in order that I should throw it away

upon the undeserving.’—‘Thou art in the right, friend Sancho,’ replied

Don Quixote; ‘and Altisidora is much to blame in having witheld the

promised shifts, although thy virtue is _gratis data_, without having

put thee to the trouble of studying aught but the art of enduring

personal torture; for my own part, I can say, that if thou hadst

demanded payment for the disinchanting stripes, I should have allowed it

to thy own satisfaction; though I know not how such hire might interfere

with the cure; and I should not wish that the premium might impede the

effect of the medicine: nevertheless, I do not think the experiment

could be attended with any bad consequence. Consider, Sancho, what thou

wouldst have; then proceed to the flagellation, and pay thyself fairly

out of my money which is in thy own hands.’

At this proposal, the squire opened his eyes and ears a full span, and

resolving in his heart to scourge himself with good will, answered in

these words—‘Aye, now, Signior, I find myself extremely well disposed to

comply with your worship’s desire, since my compliance will be attended

with some profit; and, I own, my regard for my poor wife and children

makes me seem a little selfish.—Pray what will your worship chuse to

give for every stripe?’—‘Were I to pay thee, Sancho,’ said the knight,

‘according to the greatness of thy deserts, and the quality of the cure,

the bank of Venice and mines of Potosi would not afford a sufficient

recompence: but, see how much of my money thou hast got, and set thy own

price upon every lash.’—‘The number of stripes to be given,’ answered

the squire, ‘amounts to three thousand three hundred and odd: of these I

have received about five, which shall stand for the odd; so that three

thousand three hundred remain. Now, if we value each lash at a quarter

of a rial, and I would not bate a doit though the whole world should

desire me, the sum will be three thousand three hundred quartillos; the

three thousand quartillos make fifteen hundred half-rials, which are

equal to seven hundred and fifty rials, and the other three hundred

quartillos make one hundred and fifty half-rials, which are equal to

seventy five rials, and these being added to the former seven hundred

and fifty, the whole reckoning amounts to eight hundred and twenty five

rials. These I will deduct from your cash that is in my hands, and then

I will return to my own house, rich and satisfied, though well scourged;

for, We cannot catch trouts without wetting our clouts: and I will say

no more upon the subject.’—‘O blessed Sancho! O lovely Sancho!’ cried

Don Quixote; ‘Dulcinea and I will be bound to serve thee all the days

that Heaven shall permit us to live; provided she shall retrieve her

lost-form: and, in this hope, we cannot possibly be mistaken; her

misfortune will prove fortunate, and my overthrow a most happy triumph.

And now, Sancho, consider when thou wilt begin this discipline; towards

the speedy performance of which, I add another hundred rials.’—‘When?’

replied the squire; ‘this very night, without fail: if your worship will

take care to chuse our lodging in the open field, I will take care to

open my own carcase.’

At length the night arrived, after it had been impatiently expected by

Don Quixote, who thought the wheels of Apollo’s car had broken down, and

that the day was extended to an unusual length; like those lovers whose

desires ever outstrip the career of time.

In the evening, they betook themselves to the covert of some pleasant

trees at a little distance from the highway, and vacating the saddle of

Rozinante, and the pannel of the ass, sat down together upon the grass,

and supped upon the store contained in the wallet of Sancho; who,

forming a strong and flexible scourge with Dapple’s halter, retired into

a tuft of beeches about twenty paces from his master. The knight seeing

him withdraw so brisk and resolute—‘Beware, friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘of

scourging thyself to pieces; perform thy discipline at leisure; let the

stripes follow one another in regular succession, and do not run so fast

as to be out of breath in the middle of thy career; I mean, do not lash

thyself so severely, as to destroy thy own life before the number be

compleated; and, that thou mayest not lose it by a card too many, or too

few, I will stand aside and count the stripes upon my rosary. Mayest

thou enjoy the protection of Heaven, which thy christian intention so

richly deserves!’—‘A good paymaster needs no bail,’ answered the squire:

‘I intend to scourge myself in such a manner as will mortify my flesh,

without any hazard of my life; for, in that medium the substance of the

miracle must consist.’ He forthwith stripped himself naked from the

waist upwards, and snatching the scourge, began to whip himself, while

his master reckoned the stripes. About half a dozen or eight lashes had

Sancho bestowed upon himself, when he found the joke very expensive, and

the reward dog cheap; and suspending the instrument, told the knight he

had been deceived, and claimed the benefit of an appeal; for every one

of these stripes was worth half a rial instead of a quartillo. ‘Proceed,

friend Sancho, without dismay,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and I will double

the allowance.’—‘At that rate,’ replied the squire, ‘to it again, by the

grace of God, and let it rain lashes.’ But, the cunning knave no longer

made application to his own shoulders, in lieu of which he began to

scourge the trees, venting between whiles such dismal groans as seemed

to tear his very soul up by the roots. The knight, from the tenderness

of his own disposition, being apprehensive that he would actually put an

end to his life, and of consequence defeat the purpose of his

flagellation by his imprudence, exclaimed—‘I conjure thee, by thy life,

friend Sancho, to let the business rest where it now stands: the

medicine seems to have a very rough operation, and it will be better to

proceed leisurely; for Zamora was not taken in one hour. Above a

thousand stripes hast thou already inflicted upon thyself, if my

reckoning is just, and these shall suffice for the present; for, if I

may use a vulgar expression, Though the load must lie over the ass, he

must not be overloaded.’—‘No, no, Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘they shall

never say of me, When money’s paid before its due, a broken limb will

straight ensue. Pray stand aside a little, Signior, and let me lay on

another thousand, if you please: two such bouts will perform the

bargain, and leave something to boot.’—‘Since thou findest thyself in

such an excellent frame and disposition,’ said the knight, ‘Heaven

protect thee; stick to the stuff, and I shall withdraw.’ Sancho,

resuming his task and reckoning, had already disbarked a number of

trees, with the rigorous application of his scourge; when, bestowing a

dreadful stroke upon an unfortunate beech, he exclaimed with great

vociferation—‘Here, Sampson, shalt thou die, with all thine abettors.’

Don Quixote hearing this dismal ejaculation, and the terrible sound of

the stroke, ran up to the spot, and seizing the twisted halter that

Sancho used instead of a bull’s pizzle—‘Fate,’ said he, ‘friend Sancho,

will not permit that for my pleasure thou shouldst lose that life on

which the sustenance of thy wife and family must depend. Dulcinea shall

wait for a more favourable conjuncture, and I will contain myself within

the limits of the nearest hope, until thou shalt recover new strength to

conclude this affair to the satisfaction of all parties.’—‘Since your

worship is so inclined,’ answered the squire, ‘so be it in happy time;

and pray, good Signior, throw your cloak, about my shoulders; for I am

all in a sweat, and would not willingly catch cold, which is so often

the case with new disciplinants.’ The knight, in compliance with this

request, stripped himself of his upper garment, with which he covered up

Sancho, who slept until he was wakened by the sun; then they proceeded

on their journey, which, for that day, did not exceed three leagues.

They alighted at an inn; for such it was acknowledged by Don Quixote,

who did not, as usual, suppose it a castle furnished with a fosse,

turrets, portcullices, and draw-bridges: indeed, since his defeat, he

had talked with more sanity on all subjects, as will presently appear.

He was shewn into a low apartment, hung with old painted serge, instead

of tapestry, such as is used in country places, in one piece of which

some wretched hand had drawn the rape of Helen, who was carried off from

Menelaus by his presumptuous guest; and in another was represented the

story of Dido and Æneas, the unhappy queen standing upon a lofty tower,

making signals with a white sheet to her fugitive lover, who, in a

frigate or brigantine, was flying from her coast. He observed, of these

two history pieces, that Helen shewed no marks of compulsion; but rather

exhibited her satisfaction in a roguish smile; whereas, from the eyes of

the beautiful Dido, tears as big as walnuts seemed to fall. Don Quixote

having considered both pictures, ‘These two ladies,’ said he, ‘were most

unfortunate, because they did not live in this our age; and I, above all

men unhappy, because I did not live in theirs. Had I encountered these

gentlemen, Troy had ne’er been burnt, nor Carthage laid in ruins; for,

by killing Paris only, I should have prevented such disasters.’—‘I’ll

lay a wager,’ said Sancho, ‘that in a very little time, every cook’s

cellar, tavern, inn, and barber’s shop in the kingdom, will be

ornamented with pictures containing the history of our atchievements;

but I should be glad to see them painted by a better workman than him

who made these daubings.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ replied Don Quixote;

‘he that painted these pieces is just such another as Orbaneja, a

painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he was about, answered, “Just as

it happens;” and if he chanced to represent a cock, he wrote under it,

“This is a cock,” that it might not be mistaken for a fox. Such a

person, I suppose, is that same painter or author, for it is the same

thing, who ushered into the world the lately published history of the

new Don Quixote: for he has painted or described whatever came

uppermost; or, perhaps, he resembles an old court poet called Mauleon,

who pretended to answer every question extempore; and being one day

asked the meaning of _Deum del Deo_, replied, “_De doude diere_[211].”

But, waving this subject, tell me, Sancho, if thou art resolved to take

the other turn to-night, and whether thou wouldst chuse to go to work

under an humble roof, or beneath the high canopy of Heaven?’—‘’Fore God!

Signior,’ replied the squire, ‘as to what I intend to take, it matters

not much, whether it be taken within doors or without: nevertheless, I

should chuse to go to work among trees; for they seem to accompany and

assist me wonderfully in bearing the brunt of the application.’—‘But it

must not be so at present, friend Sancho,’ answered the knight; ‘in

order to recruit your strength, the execution shall be postponed until

we arrive at our own village, which we shall reach the day after

to-morrow, at farthest.’ Sancho said he might take his own way; though

he himself should be glad to dispatch the business now he was warm, and

while the mill was a going; ‘For, Delay breeds danger; and We ought

still to be doing while to God we are suing. I will give thee, is good;

but, Here, take it, is better. A sparrow in hand is worth an eagle on

wing.’—‘No more proverbs, Sancho, for the love of God!’ cried the

knight; thou seemest to be returning to _sicut erat_. Speak plainly and

perspicuously, without such intricate mazes, as I have often advised

thee, and thou wilt find thyself one loaf per cent. in pocket.’—‘I am so

unlucky,’ answered the squire, ‘that I cannot give a reason without a

proverb, nor a proverb that I do not think a good reason; but I will

mend if I can!’ And here the conversation ended for that time.

Footnote 211:

‘Wherever it may hit:’ an answer that has no affinity with the

question, but the faint resemblance of sound.

CHAP. XX.

GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE’S ARRIVAL AT HIS OWN HABITATION.

That whole day Don Quixote and Sancho tarried at the inn, waiting for

night, during which the one intended to finish his whipping task in the

open field, and the other hoped to see the accomplishment of that

discipline on which depended the accomplishment of his desire. In the

mean time, a gentleman on horseback arrived at the door, attended by

three or four servants, one of whom said to him who seemed to be the

master, ‘Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, your worship may pass the afternoon

in this house; the lodging seems to be cool and cleanly.’ Don Quixote

hearing this address, ‘Hark ye, Sancho,’ said he, ‘when I glanced over

the second part of my history, I am very much mistaken if I did not

perceive, as I turned over the leaves, this very name of Don Alvaro

Tarfe.’—‘Very likely,’ replied the squire; ‘first let him alight, and

then we can ask questions.’ Accordingly the traveller having alighted,

was conducted by the landlady into a room that fronted the knight’s

apartment, and was ornamented with the same kind of paintings which we

have already described. This new-come cavalier, laying aside his upper

garment, came out into the porch, which was cool and spacious, where

seeing Don Quixote walking backwards and forwards for the benefit of the

air, he asked in a courteous manner, which way his worship was

travelling. The knight told him he was going to the place of his

nativity, which was a village in the neighbourhood; and, in his turn,

expressed a desire of knowing the direction of the stranger’s course.

‘Signior,’ said the cavalier, ‘I am travelling to Grenada, which is my

native country.’—‘And a good country it is,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but

will your worship be so good as to tell me your name, which I believe is

of more importance to me to know, than I can well explain.’—‘My name,’

said the stranger, ‘is Don Alvaro Tarfe.’—‘Without doubt, then,’ replied

the knight, ‘you must be the gentleman mentioned in the second part of

the history of Don Quixote de La Mancha, lately printed and published by

a modern author.’—‘The very same,’ answered the cavalier: ‘Don Quixote,

the principal character of that history, was an intimate acquaintance of

mine: I brought him from his own habitation; at least I persuaded him to

assist at the tournament of Saragossa, whither I was going, and where I

really and truly did him signal services; and particularly saved his

back from being very roughly handled by the hangman, for his excessive

impudence and knavery.’—‘And pray, Signior Don Alvaro, is there any

resemblance between me and that Don Quixote whom your worship mentions?’

said the knight. ‘No, surely, none at all,’ replied the stranger. ‘Is

not that Don Quixote attended by a squire, called Sancho Panza?’ resumed

our hero. ‘Yes, he is,’ answered the other; ‘and although he was

reported to be a very humorous companion, I never heard him utter one

merry conceit.’—‘That I can very well believe,’ said Sancho, mingling in

the discourse; ‘it is not every body that can utter conceits; and that

same Sancho, whom your worship mentions, must be a very great knave, and

indeed both fool and knave; for I am the true Sancho Panza, who have as

many conceits as there are drops of rain. If your worship will but try

the experiment, and keep me company for a year or so, you will see them

fall from me at every step; nay, they are so merry and so numerous, that

very often when I myself know not what I have said, they make all the

hearers burst their sides with laughing; and the true Don Quixote de La

Mancha, the renowned, the valiant, the sage, the enamoured knight, the

undoer of wrongs, the tutor of wards and orphans, the protector of

widows, the destroyer of maids, he who owns no other mistress than the

peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is my master, this very gentleman here

present: every other Don Quixote, and every other Sancho whatsoever, is

no better than a dream or delusion.’—‘Before God! I am of the same

opinion,’ replied Don Alvaro; ‘for, truly, my good friend, you have

uttered more pleasantry in these few sentences you have spoke, than ever

I knew come from the mouth of the other Sancho Panza, though he was an

eternal babbler; he was much more of a glutton than an orator, and

rather idiotical than humorous. Indeed, I am fully persuaded, that those

inchanters who molest the good Don Quixote, have been pleased to

persecute me with the bad Don Quixote: and yet I know not what to say;

for I can take my oath that I left him at Toledo in the nuncio’s house,

under the care of surgeons; and now, another Don Quixote starts up in

his place, though of a very different character and complexion!’—‘I know

not whether or not I am the good Don Quixote,’ replied the knight; ‘but,

I will venture to say, I am not the bad Don Quixote; and, as a proof of

what I alledge, my good Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, your worship must

know, that in the whole course of my life I never was at Saragossa; on

the contrary, having been informed, that the fantastical Don Quixote had

been present at the tournament of that city, I would not set foot within

its walls, that I might demonstrate his imposture to the satisfaction of

the whole world: I, therefore, openly repaired to Barcelona, that

repository of politeness, that asylum of strangers, that hospital of the

poor, that native place of gallantry, that avenging tribunal of the

injured, that agreeable scene of unshaken friendship unparalleled both

in beauty and situation! and although certain adventures which there

befel me did not so much contribute to my satisfaction, but, on the

contrary, conduced to my unspeakable disquiet, I bear my fate without

repining, and count myself happy in having seen that celebrated place:

finally, Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am the real Don Quixote de La

Mancha, so well known to fame, and not that wretched impostor who has

thought proper to usurp my name, and deck himself with the spoils of my

reputation. I must therefore entreat your worship, as you value yourself

on the character of a gentleman, to make a declaration before the

alcalde of the place; importing, that, before this day, you never saw me

in the whole course of your life; and that I am not the Don Quixote

described in the second part, nor this Sancho Panza the squire whom your

worship knew in his service.’—‘With all my heart,’ said Don Alvaro; ‘and

yet I cannot help being astonished to see two Don Quixotes, and two

Sanchos, at the same time, so similar in name, and so unlike in

character; so that I say again, and even affirm, that I have not really

seen that which I thought I had seen, nor met with those incidents in

which I supposed myself concerned.’—‘Doubtless,’ cried Sancho, ‘your

worship must be enchanted, like my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and would

to God your disinchantment depended upon my undergoing another tale of

three thousand three hundred lashes, such as I have undertaken in her

favour; I would lay them on without interest or deduction.’ When Don

Alvaro said he did not understand what he meant by lashes, the squire

answered it was a long story, which, however, he would relate to him

should they chance to travel the same road.

Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined together; and the alcalde of the town

chancing to enter the inn with a scrivener, our hero demanded, by a

formal petition, that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentleman there present,

should depose before his worship, that he was not acquainted with him,

Don Quixote there present also; and that he the said Don Quixote was not

the person described in a certain history, intitled, The second part of

Don Quixote de La Mancha; composed by one Avellanada, native of

Tordesillas. In a word, the alcalde proceeded in form; the deposition

was drawn up in the strongest terms, and the knight and squire were as

much rejoiced as if this certificate had been of the utmost consequence

to their identity, and as if the difference between the two Quixotes and

Sanchos would not have plainly appeared from their words and actions.

Many compliments and proffers of service passed between Don Alvaro and

Don Quixote; and our great Manchegan gave such proofs of discretion as

undeceived Don Alvaro, who persuaded himself that he was certainly

inchanted, seeing he had felt, as it were with his hand, two such

contrary Don Quixotes. In the evening they departed from the village,

and travelled together about half a league, until they found the highway

divided into two roads, one of which led to the habitation of Don

Quixote, and Don Alvaro’s journey lay through the other: yet, in that

small space, the knight recounted the misfortune of his overthrow,

together with Dulcinea’s inchantment, and the remedy proposed; so as to

excite anew the admiration of the stranger; who, embracing Don Quixote

and Sancho, took his leave, and proceeded on his own affairs, while our

knight jogged on at an easy pace, and passed the night in a grove of

trees in order to give Sancho an opportunity to perform his penance,

which he accomplished as before, at the expence of the beeches, and not

of his own shoulders; these he defended with such care, that they felt

not even the whiff of any stripe sufficient to displace a fly. The

credulous knight lost not one in his reckoning of the lashes; which

including those of the preceding night, amounted to three thousand and

twenty-nine: the sun seemed to rise early on purpose to behold this

sacrifice, and to light our adventurer on his way, which he prosecuted,

conversing with Sancho upon the mistake and deception of Don Alvaro, and

his own presence of mind in obtaining such an authentick testimonial

before the justice.

The whole day and night they travelled without encountering any

adventure worthy of record, except that, in the dark, Sancho finished

his discipline, to the unspeakable satisfaction of the knight, who

waited with impatience for the day in hope of finding his mistress

Dulcinea disinchanted upon the road: indeed, he was so much engrossed by

this notion, that he went up to every woman he met in the remaining part

of his journey, to see if she was not Dulcinea del Toboso; infallibly

persuaded that there could be no deceit in the promises of Merlin. While

he indulged these reflections and desires, they ascended a rising ground

from whence they descried their own village; which Sancho no sooner

perceived, than he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Open thine eyes,

beloved country! and behold the return of thy son Sancho Panza; who,

though not very rich in coin, is well stored with lashes: open thine

arms at the same time, and receive thy son Don Quixote; who, though

vanquished by a stranger’s hand, returns the victor of himself; and

that, as he hath often told me, is the greatest conquest which can be

desired. With regard to my own fate, I have money in my purse; for,

though the stripes fell thick and heavy, I was rewarded like a

gentleman.’—‘Leave these fooleries,’ said the knight, ‘and let us go

directly home, where we will indulge our imagination with free scope, in

contriving the scheme of pastoral felicity which we intend to enjoy.’

They accordingly descended the hill, and made the best of their way to

their own village.

CHAP. XXI.

OF THE OMENS THAT OCCURRED TO DON QUIXOTE

WHEN HE ENTERED THE VILLAGE—

WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WHICH ADORN

AND AUTHENTICATE THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

Cid Hamet relates, that Don Quixote, as he entered the village,

perceived two boys quarrelling in a threshing-floor, and heard the one

say to his antagonist, ‘Struggle thy fill, Periquillo, thou shalt never

see it in all the days of thy life.’ These words no sooner reached the

knight’s ears, than turning to his squire, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he,

‘didst not thou mark what the boy said? “Thou shalt never see it in all

the days of thy life.”’—‘And what signifies what the boy says?’ answered

the squire. ‘What!’ replied the knight, ‘dost thou not perceive that

these words, applied to my concerns, signify, that I shall never behold

Dulcinea?’ Sancho was just going to answer, when he was prevented by the

sight of an hare, which being pursued by a number of greyhounds and

hunters, came running through the field and squatted down in a fright

under Dapple; the squire immediately saved it from the dogs, by seizing

and presenting it to his master, who said, ‘_Malum signum, malum

signum!_ the hare flies, the hounds pursue, and Dulcinea does not

appear.’—‘That is a strange fancy in your worship!’ replied the squire;

‘let us, for example, suppose it Dulcinea del Toboso, and these pursuing

hounds the felonious inchanters who have transformed her into a

country-wench; she flies, I catch and deliver her to your worship, who

hold and fondle her in your arms; what bad sign is that? or what ill

omen can be conjured from such a circumstance?’ At this juncture the two

boys who had been quarrelling, came up to see the hare; and Sancho

having asked the cause of their quarrel, was answered by him who said,

‘Thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life,’ that he had taken

a cage full of crickets from the other boy, which he did not intend to

restore in the whole course of his life. In consequence of this

information, the squire pulled out of his pocket four farthings, and

gave them to the boy for the cage, which he put into the hands of Don

Quixote, saying, ‘Behold, Signior, the wreck and destruction of those

omens, which I (though a fool) imagine have no more to do with our

affairs than last year’s clouds; and if I right remember, I have heard

the curate of our parish observe, that no Christian of common sense

ought to mind such childish trifles; nay, even your worship made the

same remark some time ago, and told me those Christians were actually

mad who put any faith in omens; and therefore we have no occasion to

make a stumbling-block of this accident: but let us proceed, and enter

the town a-God’s name.’

The hunters coming up, demanded the hare, which was delivered to them by

our knight, who jogging on with his squire, perceived the curate and

batchelor Carrasco busy at their devotion, in a little meadow that

skirted the town. Now the reader must know, that Sancho Panza had, over

the bundle of armour carried by Dapple, thrown, by way of sumpter-cloth,

the buckram robe painted with flames of fire, which he had worn in the

duke’s castle on the night of Altisidora’s resurrection; and he, at the

same time, had fixed the mitre upon the head of the ass, which, thus

adorned, exhibited the strangest transformation that any beast of burden

in the world had ever undergone. Our adventurers were immediately

recognized by the curate and batchelor, who ran to receive them with

open arms; when Don Quixote alighting, embraced them with great

cordiality; and the boys, who are quick-sighted as lynxes, descrying the

mitre of the ass, came running in crowds to behold this new spectacle,

crying to one another, ‘Come along, boys, and see Sancho Panza’s Dapple,

as fine as a May-morning[212], and Rozinante more lean than ever.’

In a word, they entered the town, surrounded with boys, and accompanied

by the curate and batchelor, who attended them to the knight’s house, at

the gate of which they found the niece and housekeeper, already apprized

of his arrival. The same intimation, neither more nor less, had been

given to Sancho’s spouse Teresa Panza, who came running to see her

husband, half naked, with her hair hanging about her ears, and her

daughter Sanchica in her hand; but, seeing he was not so gayly equipped

as she thought a governor should be, ‘Hey-day, husband!’ cried she, ‘you

come home a-foot, and seem to be quite foundered, and look more like a

governor of hogs, than a ruler of men.’—‘Hold your tongue, Teresa,’

replied the squire; ‘you will often find hooks where there is no bacon;

let us e’en trudge home, where I will tell thee wonders: I have money in

my purse, (and that’s the one thing needful) earned by my own industry,

without prejudice to any person whatsoever.’—‘Do you bring home the

money, good husband,’ said Teresa, ‘and let it be earned here or there,

or got in what shape you please, I give myself no trouble about the

matter; I am sure, in getting it, you have introduced no new fashion

into the world.’ Sanchica embraced her father, and asked if he had

brought any thing for her, who had expected him as impatiently as if he

had been May-dew: then taking hold of his girdle with one hand, and

leading Dapple with the other, while her mother held him by the fist,

they repaired to their own house, leaving Don Quixote to the care of his

niece and housekeeper, and in company with the curate and batchelor.

The knight, disregarding times and seasons, instantly retired into an

apartment with his two friends, to whom he briefly related his

overthrow, and the obligation under which he lay, to stay at home for

the space of one year, which obligation he intended literally to

observe, without failing in the least tittle, like a true knight-errant,

bound by the punctuality of the order which he had the honour to

profess. During this term of retirement, he proposed to turn shepherd,

and enjoy the solitude of the field, where he would give full scope to

his amorous sentiments, and exercise himself in all the virtues of a

pastoral life: he, at the same time, besought them (provided they had

any time to spare, and were not hindered by business of more

consequence) to become his companions; assuring them he would purchase a

flock of sheep sufficient for a number of swains, and that the principal

part of the scheme was already effected, inasmuch as he had invented

names that would suit them with the utmost propriety. The curate

expressing a desire to know these appellations, the knight said, he

would call himself the shepherd Quixotiz, the batchelor should be

distinguished by the name of the swain Carrascon, the curate he

denominated Curiambro, and the squire, Pancino. They were confounded at

this new species of madness; but, lest he should once more forsake his

habitation to follow his new chivalries, and in hope that he might

possibly be cured during the year of his confinement, they seemingly

assented to this new proposal, extolled his madness as the very essence

of discretion, and promised to be his companions in the exercise he had

planned. ‘All the world knows that I am a celebrated poet,’ said Sampson

Carrasco, ‘and at every turn I shall compose verses, pastorals, or

courtly sonnets, or such as will best answer the purpose of entertaining

us in the fields through which we shall rove: but there is one

circumstance, gentlemen, which we must by no means neglect; and that is,

every man shall chuse a name for the shepherdess he intends to

celebrate, and inscribe and engrave it on every tree, let it be never so

hard, according to the constant practice of enamoured swains.’—‘A very

seasonable suggestion,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘but, although I am at

liberty to chuse a fictitious name, I shall not employ my invention for

that purpose, while there is such a person as the peerless Dulcinea del

Toboso, the glory of these banks! the ornament of these meadows! the

support of beauty! the cream of all gentility! and, finally, the subject

that suits all praise, how hyperbolical soever it may be.’—‘Very true,’

said the curate; ‘but we must put up with nymphs of an inferior rank;

who, though they will not square, may corner with our desires.’—‘And

should we be at a loss,’ added Sampson Carrasco, ‘we will borrow names

that abound in printed books; such as Phillis, Amaryllis, Diana,

Florida, Galatea, and Belisarda; which, as they are publickly sold, we

may purchase and appropriate to our own use. If, for example, my

mistress, or rather shepherdess, be called Ann, I will celebrate her

under the name of Anna; if her name is Frances, she shall be called

Francenia; if Lucia, she shall be known by the appellation of Lucinda:

in the same manner shall other names be metamorphosed; and if Sancho

Panza is inclined to be one of our fraternity, he may celebrate his wife

Teresa Panza, under the name of Teresayna.’ Don Quixote could not help

smiling at this transformation; and the curate, in very high terms,

applauded his honourable and virtuous resolution, promising anew to

spend in his company all the time he could spare from his indispensible

obligations. And now they took leave of the knight; after having advised

and entreated him to have a reverend care of his health, and comfort his

stomach with something good and substantial.

The niece and housekeeper having by accident overheard this

conversation, entered the apartment as soon as the curate and batchelor

were gone; and the former, addressing herself to Don Quixote, ‘Uncle,’

said she, ‘what is the meaning of all this! Now that we thought you was

returned to stay at home, and lead a quiet and honourable life in your

own house, you want to re-entangle yourself in new labyrinths, and turn

a poor shepherd. Thou cam’st with a crook, and with a scrip thou wilt

go, as the saying is; for, in good faith, the straw is too old to make

pipes of.’—‘And does your worship think,’ added the housekeeper, ‘that

you can stay in the field, during the heats of summer, and the frosts of

winter, to hear the howling of wolves! no, truly, that is the office and

employment of robust clowns, tanned by the weather, and brought up to

the business, even from their christening blankets and swaddling

cloaths; and, weighing one evil against another, you had better still be

a knight-errant than a shepherd. Consider, Signior, and take my advice,

which I do not give from a full stomach, but fresh and fasting, with

fifty good years over my head: stay at home in your own house, look

after your estate, go frequently to confession, be good to the poor, and

let my conscience answer for the rest.’—‘Hold your peace, my good

children,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘I know my own duty, and what I have to

do; meanwhile carry me to bed, for methinks I am not very well; and be

assured, that whether I continue knight-errant or turn shepherd, you may

depend upon my good offices and assistance, as you shall find by

experience.’

Comforted by this declaration, the good souls (for so they were, without

doubt) carried the knight to bed, where they presented him with

victuals, and cherished him with all possible care.

Footnote 212:

In the original, ‘as fine as Mingo,’ who was a bad poet, and tawdry

beau, contemporary with Cervantes.

CHAP. XXII.

GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE’S LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH.

As nothing human is eternal, but every sublunary object, especially the

life of man, is always declining from its origin to its decay; and Don

Quixote had no particular privilege from Heaven, exempting him from the

common fate, the end and period of his existence arrived, when he least

expected its approach. Either in consequence of the melancholy produced

by his overthrow, or by the particular dispensations of Heaven, he was

seized with a calenture which detained him in bed for the space of six

days, during which he was often visited by his friends; the curate,

batchelor, and barber, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred

from his bedside. These gentlemen, supposing his distemper proceeded

from the chagrin inspired by his overthrow, and the disappointment of

his hope, concerning the liberty and disenchantment of Dulcinea,

endeavoured by all possible means to exhilarate his spirits. The

batchelor exhorted him to chear up his heart, and forsake his couch,

that they might begin their pastoral exercise, towards which he had

already composed an eclogue which would disgrace all the pastorals that

ever Sannazarius wrote. He likewise gave him to understand, that he had

purchased with his own money from an herdsman of Quintanar, two famous

dogs called Barcino and Butron, to defend their flock from the wolves.

All these consolations, however, could not dispel the melancholy of Don

Quixote; so that his friends called a physician, who having felt his

pulse, made a very doubtful prognostick; saying, happen what would, they

ought to provide for the health of his soul, as that of his body was in

imminent danger; and he gave it as his opinion, that the poor gentleman

was overwhelmed with melancholy and vexation. The knight heard this

sentence with the most heroick composure; but that was not the case with

his housekeeper, niece, and squire, who began to weep and wail most

bitterly, as if they had already seen him deprived of life.

Don Quixote finding himself inclined to slumber, desired he might be

left alone; and the company retiring, he is said to have slept six hours

at a stretch; so that the housekeeper and niece began to fear he would

never awake. Nevertheless, he awoke at the expiration of the aforesaid

time, and exclaimed aloud, ‘Praised be the Almighty God, for the great

benefit I have received from his bounty! His mercies know no bounds; nor

are they abridged or impeded by the transgressions of man!’ The niece,

who listened attentively, hearing this ejaculation, more sensible and

connected than any thing he had uttered since the beginning of his

illness; ‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘what do you mean? Has any thing new

befallen us? What mercies and transgressions are these you

mention?’—‘Mercies,’ replied the knight, ‘which Heaven hath this instant

been pleased to vouchsafe unto me, notwithstanding the heinousness of my

transgressions. I now enjoy my judgment undisturbed, and cleared from

those dark shadows of ignorance, in which my understanding hath been

involved, by the pernicious and incessant reading of those detestable

books of chivalry. I am now sensible of the falsity and folly they

contain; and nothing gives me concern, but that this conviction comes

too late to give me time sufficient to make amends, by reading others,

which would enlighten my soul. I feel myself, cousin, at the point of

death; and I would not undergo that great change, in such a manner as to

entail the imputation of madness on my memory; for, though I have acted

as a madman, I should not wish to confirm the character, by my behaviour

in the last moments of my life. Be so good, my dear child, as to send

for my worthy friend the curate, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and

master Nicholas the barber; for I want to confess, and make my will.’

The accidental arrival of these three, saved her the trouble of sending

a message to each in particular; and Don Quixote seeing them enter,

‘Good gentlemen,’ said he, ‘congratulate and rejoice with me, upon my

being no longer Don Quixote de La Mancha, but plain Alonzo Quixano,

surnamed the Good, on account of the innocence of my life and

conversation. I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul, and the whole

infinite tribe of his descendants; now are all the profane histories of

knight errantry odious to my reflection; now I am sensible of my own

madness, and the danger into which I have been precipitated by reading

such absurdities, which I, from dear-bought experience, abominate and

abhor.’ The three friends, hearing this declaration, believed he was

certainly seized with some new species of madness; and, on this

supposition, Sampson replied, ‘Now, Signior Don Quixote, when we have

received the news of my Lady Dulcinea’s being disenchanted, do you talk

at this rate? When we are on the point of becoming shepherds, that we

may pass away our time happily in singing, like so many princes, has

your worship taken the resolution to turn hermit? No more of that, I

beseech you; recollect your spirits, and leave off talking such idle

stories!’—‘Those which I have hitherto believed, have, indeed, realized

my misfortune,’ said the knight; ‘but, with the assistance of Heaven, I

hope my death will turn them to my advantage.—Gentlemen, I feel myself

hastening to the goal of life; and therefore, jesting apart, let me have

the benefit of a ghostly confessor, and send for a notary to write my

will; for in such extremities, a man must not trifle with his own soul:

I entreat you, then, to call a notary; and, in the mean time, I will

confess myself to Mr. Curate.’ They looked at one another, surprized at

this discourse; and, though still dubious, resolved to comply with his

desire: they considered this sudden and easy transition from madness to

sanity, as a certain signal of his approaching death; for to those

expressions already rehearsed, he added a great number so rational, so

christian and well-connected, as to dispel the doubts of all present,

who were now firmly persuaded, that he had retrieved the right use of

his intellects. The curate having dismissed the company, confessed the

penitent; while the batchelor went in quest of the notary, with whom he

in a little time returned, accompanied also by Sancho, who having

received an account of his master’s condition, and finding the niece and

housekeeper in tears, began to pucker up his face, and open the

flood-gates of his eyes.

[Illustration: Don Quixote on His Death-Bed.]

Confession being ended, the curate came forth, saying, ‘The good Alonzo

Quixano is really dying, and without all doubt restored to his senses;

we may now go and see the will attested.’ These tidings gave a terrible

stab to the overcharged hearts of the two ladies and his faithful

squire, whose eyes overflowed with weeping, and whose bosoms had

well-nigh burst with a thousand sighs and groans; for, indeed, it must

be owned, as we have somewhere observed, that whether in the character

of Alonzo Quixano the Good, or in the capacity of Don Quixote de La

Mancha, the poor gentleman had always exhibited marks of a peaceable

temper and agreeable demeanour, for which he was beloved, not only by

his own family, but also by all those who had the pleasure of his

acquaintance.

The notary entering the apartment with the rest of the company, wrote

the preamble of the will, in which Don Quixote disposed of his soul in

all the necessary Christian forms: then proceeding to the legacies, he

said, ‘_Item_, Whereas Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness, I made my

squire, has in his hands a certain sum of money for my use; and as

divers accounts, disbursements, and pecuniary transactions have passed

between us; it is my will, that he shall not be charged or brought to

account for the said money; but, if there be any overplus, after he has

deducted the payment of what I owe him, the said overplus, which must be

a mere trifle, shall be his own, and much good may it do him! and as,

during my disorder, I contributed to his being made governor of an

island, I would now, while I enjoy my perfect senses, confer upon him,

were it in my power, a whole kingdom; which he richly deserves for the

innocency of his heart, and the fidelity of his service.’ Then turning

to the disconsolate squire, ‘Forgive me, friend,’ said he, ‘for having

been the cause of thy appearing in the eye of the world a madman, like

myself; by drawing thee into my own erroneous notions, concerning the

existence and adventures of knights-errant.’—‘Lack-a-day, dear Sir!’

cried Sancho, blubbering, ‘do not die; take my advice, and live many

years upon the face of the earth; for the greatest madness a man can be

guilty of in this life, is to let himself die outright, without being

slain by any person whatever, or destroyed by any other weapon than the

hands of melancholy. Hark ye, Signior! hang sloth! get up, and let us

take the field in shepherds apparel, according to our agreement; who

knows, but behind some bush we may find my Lady Dulcinea disenchanted,

and a comely sight for to see? If you take your overthrow so much to

heart, lay the blame at my door, and say you was vanquished by my

carelessness, in girting Rozinante; besides, your worship must have read

in your books of chivalry, that it was common for one knight to unhorse

another, and for him who was vanquished to-day, to be victor

to-morrow.’—‘Very true,’ said Sampson; ‘honest Sancho seems to be very

well informed of these matters.’—‘Gentlemen,’ replied the knight, ‘let

us proceed fair and softly, without looking for this year’s birds in

last year’s nests. I was mad; but now am in my right senses. I was Don

Quixote de La Mancha; but now, as I have already observed, I am Alonzo

Quixano the Good: and I hope, I shall, by my veracity and repentance,

recover that degree of your esteem, which I formerly enjoyed. So let Mr.

Notary proceed.’

‘_Item_, I bequeath my whole estate, real and personal, to my niece

Antonia Quixano here present, after deducting what shall be sufficient

for the payment of my debts and legacies; and it is my will, that from

the first of the money thence arising, the wages due to my housekeeper

shall be paid, together with twenty ducats for a suit of mourning; and I

appoint Mr. Curate, and Mr. Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, here present, my

executors. _Item_, It is my will, that if my niece Antonia Quixano

inclines to marriage, she shall not wed any man until she is fully

satisfied, from previous information, that he is an utter stranger to

books of chivalry; or, if she finds he is addicted to this kind of

reading, and marries him nevertheless, she shall forfeit the whole

legacy, which my executors may, in that case, dispose of in pious uses.

_Item_, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, if perchance they

should become acquainted with a certain author, who composed and

published an history, entitled, “The Second Part of the Atchievements of

Don Quixote de La Mancha;” that they will, in my name, most earnestly

entreat him to forgive me for having been the innocent cause of his

writing such a number of absurdities as that performance contains; for I

quit this life with some scruples of conscience arising from that

consideration.’ The will being thus concluded, he was seized with a

fainting-fit, and stretched himself at full length in the bed; so that

all the company were alarmed, and ran to his assistance. During three

days which he lived after the will was signed and sealed, he frequently

fainted, and the whole family was in confusion: nevertheless, the niece

eat her victuals, the housekeeper drank to the repose of his soul, and

even Sancho cherished his little carcase; for the prospect of succession

either dispels or moderates that affliction which an heir ought to feel

at the death of the testator.

At last Don Quixote expired; after having received all the sacraments,

and in the strongest terms, pathetically enforced, expressed his

abomination against all books of chivalry; and the notary observed, that

in all the books of that kind which he had perused, he had never read of

any knight-errant who died quietly in his bed, as a good Christian, like

Don Quixote; who, amidst the tears and lamentations of all present, gave

up the ghost, or in other words, departed this life. The curate was no

sooner certified of his decease, than he desired the notary to make a

testimonial, declaring, that Alonzo Quixano the Good, commonly called

Don Quixote de La Mancha, had taken his departure from this life, and

died of a natural death; that no other author, different from Cid Hamet

Benengeli, should falsely pretend to raise him from the dead, and write

endless histories of his atchievements.

This was the end of the sage Hidalgo de La Mancha, whose native place

Cid Hamet would not punctually describe, because he wished that all the

towns and villages of that province should contend for the honour of

having given him birth, as the seven cities of Greece contended for

Homer. We shall here omit the lamentations of the housekeeper, niece,

and squire, together with all the epitaphs, except the following, by

Sampson Carrasco.

Here lies a cavalier of fame,

Whose dauntless courage soar’d so high,

That death, which can the boldest tame,

He scorn’d to flatter or to fly.

A constant bugbear to the bad,

His might the world in arms defy’d;

And in his life though counted mad,

He in his perfect senses dy’d.

The sagacious Cid Hamet addressing himself to his pen, ‘And now, my

slender quill,’ said he, ‘whether cunningly cut, or unskilfully formed,

it boots not much; here, from this rack, suspended by a wire, shalt thou

enjoy repose, and live to future ages, if no presumptuous and wicked

hand shall take thee down, in order to profane thee in compiling idle

histories. But ere such insolent fingers can touch thine hallowed plume,

accost, and warn them, if thou canst, in words like these:

“Caitifs, forbear!—Illustrious prince, let none

”Attempt th’ emprize reserv’d for me alone[213].”

‘For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I produced for him; he to act,

and I to record: in a word, we were destined for each other, maugre and

in despight of that fictitious Tordesilian author, who has presumed, or

may presume, to write with his coarse, aukward ostrich quill, the

atchievements of my valiant knight; a burden too heavy for his weak

shoulders, and an undertaking too great for his frozen genius. Advise

him, therefore, if ever thou shouldst chance to be in his company, to

let the wearied and mouldering bones of Don Quixote rest in the grave,

without seeking to carry him into Old Castile[214], in opposition to all

the prerogatives of death; or to drag him from his tomb, where he really

and truly lies extended at full length, and utterly incapable of making

a third sally: for all the exploits performed by the whole tribe of

knights-errant are sufficiently ridiculed by the two expeditions he has

already made, so much to the satisfaction and entertainment, not only of

Spain, but also of every foreign nation to which the fame of his

adventures hath been conveyed. In so doing, thou wilt conform to thy

Christian profession of doing good to those who would do thee harm; and

I shall rest satisfied and perfectly well pleased, in seeing myself the

first author who fully enjoyed the fruit of his writings in the success

of his design: for mine was no other than to inspire mankind with an

abhorrence of the false and improbable stories recounted in books of

chivalry; which are already shaken by the adventures of my true and

genuine Don Quixote, and in a little time will certainly sink into

oblivion. Farewel.’

FINIS.

Footnote 213:

Lines probably taken from some old ballad or romance.

Footnote 214:

The author of the Second Part hinted, in his preface, a design of

bringing his hero into the field again, in Old Castile.

● Transcriber’s Notes:

○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

○ Footnotes have been moved to follow the sections in which they are

referenced.