Home
  By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon


We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote
Author: Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de, 1547-1616
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.



      +------------------------------------------------+
      | Transcriber's note:                            |
      |                                                |
      | Proverbs in the original book are separated by |
      | short horizontal lines; in this text file      |
      | proverbs are treated as indented block quotes  |
      | to distinguish them from the main body of the  |
      | text.                                          |
      +------------------------------------------------+



WIT AND WISDOM OF DON QUIXOTE.

PATCH GRIEF WITH PROVERBS.--_Shakespeare._



[Illustration: CERVANTES.]

[Illustration: Cervantes Monument in Madrid, Spain.]



Boston:
Roberts Brothers.
1882.

Copyright, 1882,
by Roberts Brothers.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.



INDEX.


Abadexo, 9.

Adam, the first head scratched, 168.

Adventure of the dead body, 51.

Adventures of Esplandian, 17.

Alamos of Medina del Campo, 199.

Aldermen, the braying, 169.

Altisidora, songs of, 219, 265.

Amadis de Gaul, 4, 17.

Amadis de Greece, 19.

Arms, the honorable profession of, 173.

Araucana, 24.

Austriada, 24.


Bacallao, 9.

Barabbas, wife for, 115.

Barataria, the island of, 222, 223, 250.

Barber's basin, taken for Mambrino's helmet, 58.

Basilius the Poor, adventure of, 147.

Belfreys and palfreys much the same, 125.

Boar hunt, the, 182.

Bray, town of, 172.


Cane, the hollow, 227.

Carrasco, views upon critics, 109;
  made executor, 286.

Chrysostom, story of, 37;
  interment of, 41;
  song of, 45;
  epitaph upon, 49.

Clavileno, flight of, 203.

Comedy, adherence to the unities necessary, 89.

Countryman, the tale of, 239.

Critic, not cricket, 163.

Cuenza, cloth of, 180.

Cupid's address at wedding of Quiteria, 153.

Curadillo, 9.

Cure of jealousy, 22.


Dapple, 181, 182, 184, 197.

Darinel, 18.

Dead body, adventure of, 51.

Death, Sancho's views on, 165.

Description of a lady, 33.

Diana, the, of Montemayor, 21, 22.

Disenchantment of Dulcinea, 187, 196.

Don Bellionis, 20.

Don Diego de Miranda, 20.

Don Galaor, serving no especial mistress, 36.

Don Olivante de Laura, 18.

Don Kyrie Eleison of Montalvan, 21.

Don Quixote, income of, 1;
  family of, 1;
  age of, 1;
  fancies of, 2;
  his armor, 2;
  his steed, 3;
  begins his adventures, 5;
  arrival at inn, 6;
  seeks knighthood, 10;
  watches his armor, 13;
  is knighted, 14;
  his self-confidence, 16;
  his library destroyed, 16, 25;
  his squire, 25;
  extolls the Golden Age, 29;
  his requisites for a knight-errant, 35;
  at the interment of Chrysostom, 41;
  his adventure with a dead body, 51;
  captures Mambrino's helmet, 56;
  performs penance, 63;
  his views of knight-errantry, 76, 82;
  receives a visit from the lady Dulcinea, 126;
  adventure with the lions, 133;
  attends the wedding of Quiteria the Fair, 147;
  a "sensible madman," 197;
  counsels Sancho, 203, 210, 225;
  his views upon poetry, 131;
  of love, 161;
  of marriage, 162;
  upon long finger-nails, 211;
  of proverbs, 212;
  converses with an author, 273;
  returns home, 282;
  his will, 284, 285;
  his death, 287;
  epitaph upon, 288.

Duke and Duchess, the, 181.

Dulcinea, described by Don Quixote, 37;
  letters to, 65;
  lines to, 66;
  disenchantment of, 187, 196;
  lines to, 66;
  sonnet to, 96.


Earldom, Sancho's views of the management of one, 91.

El Cancionero, 23.

Enchanter's errand, the, 188.

Epitaphs on Don Quixote, 96, 98, 288.

Epitaphs on Dulcinea, 99.

Ermine, a modest women compared to one, 73.


Fabila, the fate of, 184.

Fish Nicholas, 143.

Florismarle of Hyrcania, 18.

Fort, Sonnet on the, 84.

Frasso, Antonio de lo, 22.

Friendship, sonnet to, 69.


Galatea of Cervantes, 24.

Genealogies reduced to four kinds, 119.

Gil Polo, 22.

Golden Age, panegyric upon the, 29.

Goleta, sonnet upon the, 83.

Governor's round of inspection, 245.

Gratitude a duty, 61.


Heaven, death by the hand of, demands patience, 55.

Herdsmen, the purse of the, 199.

Herradura, the, 199.


Industry tranquillizing, 281.

Instructions for government of Island, 203-210.

Island of Sancho Panza, promise of, 25, 26;
  possession taken of, 222, 223.


Julius Cæsar, anecdote of, 174.


Knighted, Don Quixote, 14.

Knight-errant, the, without a mistress, 4, 36, 177;
  food of, 28;
  impiety of, 35;
  defence of, 35;
  hunger of, 71;
  compared to the courtier-knight, 118;
  extolled, 141;
  compared to the saints, 122, 123;
  his need of money never recorded, 12.

Knight-errantry, the surpassing excellence of, 76;
  compared to the life of a scholar or soldier, 78, 79;
  science of, 142.

Knighthood, ceremonies of, 14, 15.

Knight of the Cross, 19.

Knight Platir, 19.

Knight, the, reproved, 198;
  if poor, his rank is manifested by his virtues, 128.


Lace-bone, 263.

Lace worn in Purgatory, 281.

La Mancha, 1, 95, 288.

Lanzarote, romance of, 8.

Learning of Sancho Panza, 28, 205.

Letters, from Don Quixote, 255;
  from the Duchess, 251;
  from the Duke, 237;
  from Sancho, 196, 258;
  from Teresa, 261.

Library of Don Quixote destroyed, 16.

Licentiate, story of, 100.

Lions, adventure with, 133.

Lucifer, the first tumbler, 168.


Mambrino's helmet, 56.

Manuscript discovered in Saragossa, 95.

Marcela, cruelty of, 33, 37, 39.

Marriage of Camacho the Rich, 147.

Mateo Boyardo, 19.

Merlin, 188-190.

Miraguardia, castle of, 20.

Mirror of chivalry, 19.

Molinera buckles the spurs, 15.

Monteil, plains of, 26.

Monsurato, 24.

Montesinos, care of, 181.


Nymphs of Enares, 23.


Olalia, poem to, 31.

Oran, general of, 133.


Palinurus, 84.

Panza, Sancho, _vide_ Sancho Panza.

Panza, Teresa, _vide_ Teresa Panza.

Parley about the penance, 189.

Pastor Fido, 274.

Penance, a pleasing, 65.

Penance of Don Quixote, 63.

Poem addressed to Dulcinea, 66.

Poem addressed to Olalia, 31.

Poetry, views of Don Quixote upon, 131

Praise of poverty, 217.

Proverbs. See INDEX TO PROVERBS.

Proverbs, Don Quixote's dislike of, 186, 212, 215, 216

Proverbs of Sancho Panza, 212.

Pyramus and Thisbe, story of, 145.


Queen Pintiquinestra, 18.

Quexana, Antonia, heiress of Don Quixote, 286.

Quixote, Don, _vide_ Don Quixote.

Quiteria, the Fair, 147.


Retention, definition of, 63.

Rosinante, named, 3;
  encomiums upon, 7;
  sonnet to, 97, 124.


Saints and knights-errant compared, 123.

Sancha Mary, a match for her considered, 113-115.

Sanchica, 263.

Sancho Panza, becomes a squire, 25;
  counselled to ambition, 27;
  defines retention, 63;
  love to God, 71;
  his views upon administration, 91;
  is received by his wife, 93;
  plain speaking of, 105;
  conditions of his service, 110;
  self-confidence of, 111;
  rejoicing at rejoining Don Quixote, 112;
  homecomings of, 117;
  at the wedding of Quiteria, 147;
  views upon death, 165;
    upon penance, 189, 196;
    upon sleep, 277;
  his conundrum, 168;
  description of, 168;
  plight of, 181;
  at the boar hunt, 183;
  submits to penance, 195;
  government of, 197;
  official dress of, 205;
  learning of, 28, 205;
  proverbs of, 212;
  receives advice, 213;
  assumes the governorship, 222;
  encounter with the doctor, 233;
  advises the countryman, 239;
  makes a round of inspection, 245;
  returns home, 282.

Saragossa, 95.

Scholars, sufferings of, 78, 79.

Serenade, a, 218.

Seville, story of lunatic of, 100.

Shepherd of Iberia, 23.

Shepherd of Filida, 23.

Sleep, Sancho's views upon, 277.

Soldier, sufferings of the, 79, 80.


Tailor, the secret of a, 224.

Tasters, story of, 129.

Tears of St. Peter, 72.

Tembleque, 200.

Teresa Panza, receives Sancho, 93;
  counsels him, 114;
  her good sense, 116;
  receives the page, 249;
  writes Sancho, 261.

Tirante the White, 21.

Tolosa, girds on sword of Don Quixote, 14.

Truchuela, 9.

Truth, the mother of history, 29.


Wife, but one good, 160.


Zamora, a bagpipe, 152.



INDEX TO PROVERBS.


Actions, when prejudicial, not to be recorded, 106.

Advice, a woman's, to be taken, 120.

Affront, an, to be maintained, 177.

Animals, lessons to be learned from, 127.

Analysis of fables, 87.

Army, the, a school for generosity, 82.

Associates, character indicated by self-chosen ones, 124.


Beauty, all does not inspire to love, 49.

Beauty in a modest woman, 49.

Beautiful objects infinite, 49.

Benefits conferred on the base, 61.

Bird, a, in the hand, 71, 120, 127, 282.

Birds, none in last year's nests, 218.

Biters, the, are bit, 245.

Book, good in every, 109.

Books, no, no bacon, 124.

Brevity pleasing, 60.

Building on impossibilities, 74.

By-and-by, the streets of, 162.


Cats, by night all are gray, 180.

Church, the, the court, the sea, 83.

Clergyman, a, what he should be to be beloved, 33.

Companions, a man known by his, 124.

Comparisons offensive, 104.

Course, the middle, the one of valor, 104.

Customs not all invented at once, 6.


Death, a remedy for everything but, 210.

Delay breeds danger, 86, 281.

Devil, the, assumes an angel form, 74.

Diligence, the mother of success, 86.

Disquietude designed for knights, 34.

Drinker, a good, covered by a bad cloak, 186.


Enemy, an, the merits of his cause, 209.

Epics, prose, 88.

Ermine, an, a modest woman compared to, 73.


Fables, analysis of, 87.

Fast bind, fast find, 120.

Fear, the effect of, 49.

Fiction, better as it resembles truth, 87.

Finger, a, between two eye-teeth, 215.

Flattery, the sway of, 145.

Forewarned, forearmed, 132.

Fortune, good, seldom comes single, 83.

Fortune like a mill-wheel, 87.

Friend, a, consolation, 62.

Frying-pan, out of, 50.


God's mercy more glorious than His justice, 210.

Good in every book, 109.

Gold, all that glitters is not, 244.

Governing pleasant, 203.

Gratitude, a compensation, 271; a duty, 61.

Grievance, no, can keep the sufferer from kindness, 70.


Handle, the right one of things, 56.

Happiness as reckoned by sages, 130.

History, a sacred subject, 108.

History, faithful, will survive, 280.

Holy days to be kept peacefully, 122.

Hope and love coincident, 74.

Host, to reckon without the, 104.

Hypocrite, a, less dangerous than the open transgressor, 173.


Jest, a painful, no jest, 272.

Jesting, a time for, 123.

Judge, a, should lean toward compassion, 209.


King, serving the, in war, 173.

Knights, all, not courteous, 118.


Lance, the, never blunted the pen, 49.

Learned men among mountains. 93.

Leap, a, better than a prayer, 60.

Liberality, the blessings of, 288.

Liberty, the blessings of, 2.

Light, the, shines upon all, 245.

Lineages, two kinds of, 60.

Liver, the good, the best preacher, 166.

Love, a leveller, 29.

Love, the eyes of, 70.

Love, unconstrained, 49.

Love, uncompromising, 56.

Love, conquered by flight, 74.

Love, vanities of, 76.

Love, wears spectacles, 163.

Lovers, external actions of, 124.


Madness, the followers of, 129.

Maiden, a, her reserve her defence, 104.

Many littles make a mickle, 121.

Man, a dishonored, 71.

Manners, good, cheap, 202.

Master, a, judged by his servants, 176.

Mayor, he whose father is a, 214.

Might overcomes, 86.

Mischance, one, invites another, 70.

Misfortunes never single, 70.

Money willingly lent to officials, 118.

Music, the effect of, 70.


Nail, a, in Fortune's wheel, 162.

Nature is like a potter, 176.

Nobility, true, 76.


Pains, those of others are easy to bear, 176.

Patience, and shuffle the cards, 168.

Paymaster, a good, needs no security, 176.

Peace, no, in scruples of conscience, 104.

Philosophers in cottages, 93.

Purpose, the honest, favored, 76.


Railing is neighbor to forgiveness, 281.

Remedy, a, for everything but death, 210.

Retreat sometimes wise, 61.

Riches, two roads to, 120.

Riches, of little avail against trouble, 62.

Rome, when in, 264.

Rules for obtaining excellence, 62.


Seeing is believing, 128.

Severity is not disdain, 50.

Sleep, a cure for trouble, 280.

Soldier, a covetous, a monster, 82.

Soldier, equal to a captain, 34.

Song, the relief of, 61.

Sorrow, concealed, 73.

Sorrow, a blessing, 128.


Thing, a, begun is half finished, 202.

Thing, a, the right handle of, 56.

To-day here, to-morrow gone, 121.

Tongues as weapons, 177.

Tricks of a town, 86.

Truffles, to look for, in the sea, 106.

Truth, the mother of history, 29.

Truth may bend, 124.


Virtue more persecuted than beloved, 86.


Walls have ears, 244.

Wealth, its gratification is a right application, 119.

Wise, a word to the, 202.

Wit and humor, attributes of genius, 108.

Woman, varieties of, 70.

Woman, the burden to which she is born, 118.

Woman, her advice, to be taken, 120.


Yes or no of a woman, between the, 162.



[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE.]

CERVANTES.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.


The most trivial act of the daily life of some men has a unique
interest, independent of idle curiosity, which dissatisfies us with the
meagre food of date, place, and pedigree. So in the "Cartas de Indias"
was published, two years ago, in Spain, a facsimile letter from
Cervantes when tax-gatherer to Philip II., informing him of the efforts
he had made to collect the taxes in certain Andalusian villages.

It is difficult, from the slight social record that we have of
Cervantes, to draw the line where imagination begins and facts end.

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the contemporary of Shakspeare, Galileo,
Camoens, Rubens, Tasso, and Lope de Vega, was born obscurely and in
poverty, but with good antecedents. His grandfather, Juan de Cervantes,
was the corregidor, or mayor, of Ossuna, and our poet was the youngest
son of Rodrigo and Leonora de Cortiños, of the Barajas family. On either
side he belonged to illustrious houses. He speaks of his birthplace as
the "famous Henares,"--"Alcala de Henares," sometimes called Alcala de
San Justo, from the saint San Justo having there suffered martyrdom
under the traitor Daciamos. The town is beautifully situated on the
borders of the Henares River, two thousand feet above the level of the
sea.

He was born on Sunday, October 9, 1547, and was baptized in the church
of Santa Maria la Mayor, receiving his name on the fête day of his
patron Saint Miguel, which some biographers have confounded with that of
his birthday.

We may be forgiven for a few words about Alcala de Henares, since, had
it only produced so rare a man as was Cervantes, it would have had
sufficient distinction; but it was a town of an eventful historical
record. It was destroyed about the year 1000, and rebuilt and possessed
by the Moors, was afterwards conquered by Bernardo, Archbishop of
Toledo. Three hundred years later it was the favorite retreat of
Ximenes, then Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, who returned to it, after
his splendid conquests, laden with gold and silver spoil taken from the
mosques of Oran, and with a far richer treasure of precious Arabian
manuscripts, intended for such a university as had long been his
ambition to create, and the corner-stone of which he laid with his own
hands in 1500. There was a very solemn ceremonial at the founding of
this famous university, and a hiding away of coins and inscriptions
under its massive walls, and a pious invocation to Heaven for a special
blessing on the archbishop's design! At the end of eight years the
extensive and splendid buildings were finished and the whole town
improved. With the quickening of literary labor and the increase of
opportunities of acquiring knowledge, the reputation of the university
was of the highest.

The cardinal's comprehensive mind included in its professorships all
that he considered useful in the arts. Emulation was encouraged, and
every effort was made to draw talent from obscurity. To this enlightened
ecclesiastic is the world indebted for the undertaking of the Polyglot
Bible, which, in connection with other learned works, led the university
to be spoken of as one of the greatest educational establishments in the
world. From far and near were people drawn to it. King Ferdinand paid
homage to his subject's noble testimonial of labor, by visiting the
cardinal at Alcala de Henares, and acknowledging that his own reign had
received both benefit and glory from it. The people of Alcala punningly
said, the church of Toledo had never had a bishop of greater
_edification_ than Ximenes; and Erasmus, in a letter to his friend
Vergara, perpetrates a Greek pun on the classic name of Alcala,
intimating the highest opinion of the state of science there. The
reclining statue of Ximenes, beautifully carved in alabaster, now
ornaments his sepulchre in the College of St. Ildefonso.

Cervantes shared the honor of the birthplace with the Emperor Ferdinand;
he of "blessed memory," who failed to obtain permission from the Pope
for priests to marry, but who, in spite of turbulent times, maintained
religious peace in Germany, and lived to see the closing of the Council
of Trent, marking his reign as one of the most enlightened of the age.

Alcala also claims Antonio de Solis, the well-known historian, whose
"Conquest of Mexico" has been translated into many languages, as well as
Teodora de Beza, a zealous Calvinistic reformer and famous divine, a
sharer of Calvin's labors in Switzerland and author of the celebrated
manuscripts known as Beza's manuscripts.

Judging from the character of the town and the refining educational
influence that so grand a university must have had over its inhabitants,
we have a right to believe that Cervantes was early imbued with all that
was noble and good, and it is difficult to understand why, with all the
advantages which the College of St. Ildefonso opened to him, he should
have been sent away from it to that of Salamanca. Even allowing that the
supposition of early poverty was correct, it would have appeared an
additional reason for his being educated in his native town,
particularly as liberal foundations were made for indigent students.
The fact of his being sent to Salamanca would seem to disprove the
supposition of pecuniary necessity. In its early days, the university of
Salamanca was justly celebrated for its progress in astronomy and
familiarity with Greek and Arabian writers; but, during the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries, it seems to have remained very stationary,
little attention being paid to aught beside medicine and dogmatic
theology.

After being two years at Salamanca he changed to Madrid, where he is
supposed to have made great progress, under the care of Juan Lopez de
Hoyos, a professor of _belles lettres_, who spoke of Cervantes as "our
dear and beloved pupil." Hoyos was himself a poet, and occasionally
published collections to which Cervantes contributed his pastoral
"Filena," which was much admired at the time. He also wrote several
ballads; but ballads generally belong to their own age, and those that
remain to us of his have lost much of their poignancy. Two poems,
written on the death of Isabella of Valois, wife of Philip II.,
specially pleased Hoyos, who at the time gave full credit to his
promising pupil. That eighth wonder of the world, the Escurial, was in
progress during Cervantes' time in Madrid; built as expiatory by the
king, the husband of the same unfortunate Isabella. He was that subtle
tyrant of Spain, who had the grace to say, on the destruction of the
Invincible Armada, "I sent my fleet to combat with the English, not with
the elements. God's will be done."

While he was yet a boy, bull-fights were introduced into Spain:--

  "Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
   The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain,
   Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
   In vengeance, gloating on another's pain."

The attention of the Cardinal Acquaviva was called to him through his
composition of "Filena," and, in 1568 or 1569, he joined the household
of the cardinal and accompanied him to Rome. It is sad to think that
only a few meagre items are all that remain to tell us of his daily life
at this important period of his life. By some of his biographers he is
mentioned as being under the protection of the cardinal; by one as
seeking to better his penniless condition; by another as having the
place of _valet de chambre_; and still again, we find him mentioned as a
chamberlain in the household. Monsignor Guilio Acquaviva, in 1568, went
as ambassador to Spain to offer the king the condolences of the Pontiff
on the death of Don Carlos. The cardinal was a man of high position,
young, yet of great accomplishments, and with cultivated literary
tastes. What then could have been more natural than that he should have
found companionship in Cervantes, and have desired to attach him to
himself as a friend or as a confidential secretary, to be always near
him. It is more than probable that his impressions of Southern France,
which he immortalized in his early pastoral romance of "Galatea" were
imbibed while making the journey to Rome with the cardinal, in whose
service he must have remained three years, as in October 7, 1571, we
find him joining the united Venetian, Papal, and Spanish expedition
commanded by Don John of Austria, against the Turks and the African
corsairs.

In the naval engagement at Lepanto, Cervantes was badly wounded, and
finally lost his left hand and part of the arm. For six months he was
immured in the hospital at Messina. After his recovery, he joined the
expedition to the Levant, commanded by Marco Antonio Colonna, Duke of
Valiano. He joined at intervals various other expeditions, and not till
after his prominence in the engagement at Tunis, did he, in 1575, start
to return to Spain, the land of his heart, the theme of the poet, and
the region supposed by the Moors to have dropped from heaven. Don John
of Austria and Don Carlos of Arragon, Viceroy of Sicily, each bore the
warmest testimony to the bravery and heroism of our poet, and each gave
him strong letters of commendation to the king of Spain.

In company with his own brother Roderigo, and other wounded soldiers
who were returning home, he started in the ship _El Sol_, which had the
misfortune, September 26, 1575, to be captured by an Algerine squadron.
Then it happened that the letters from the two kings, so highly prized
and upon which he had built so many hopes, proved a great misfortune to
him. The pirates cast lots for the captives. Cervantes fell to the share
of the captain, Dali Mami by name, who, in consequence of finding these
two letters, imagined he must be some Don of great importance and worth
a heavy ransom. He was watched and guarded with great strictness, loaded
with heavy fetters, and subjected to cruelties of every kind, till his
captor, not finding him of so much account as he had supposed, and no
money being offered for his ransom, the captain finally sold him for
five hundred escudos to the Dey Azan.

Inasmuch as a change might lead to something better, Cervantes rejoiced.
His gallant spirit, ever hopeful, looked for the open door in
misfortune. But, alas! his increased sufferings with the Dey reached a
climax almost beyond endurance. He made every struggle to escape; but
even in the midst of all his own sufferings, he found ways of aiding his
fellow-victims and inspiring them with the hopes denied to himself.
Roderigo had escaped long before, and from that time was making constant
exertion to raise the needful amount to redeem Miguel from the Dey, but
not till September, 1580, did he succeed in effecting his release; some
biographers making it a still later date.

His father had long been dead, and his mother and sisters gathered what
they could, but the combined family efforts were insufficient. There was
a society of pious and generous monks, who made special exertions to
assist in the liberation of Christian captives, and they finally made up
the amount demanded by Azan for Cervantes' release.

Worn down in spirit, broken in health, crushed at heart, who may venture
to speak of the effect upon him when he once more found himself at home
and in the embraces of his family? He himself says: "What transport in
life can equal that which a man feels on the restoration of his
liberty?" There is probably no more thrilling or exact an account of the
Algerine slavery than he has given in "Don Quixote." Whether his love
for a military life still pursued him, whether he desired an opportunity
for revenge upon his persecutors, or whether it was fatality,--maimed
and ruined as he was he once more entered the army. We cannot analyze
his motive. He makes his bachelor Sampson say, "The historian must pen
things not as they ought to have been but as they really were, without
adding to or diminishing aught from the truth." The lives of literary
men are not always devoid of stirring incidents. M. Viardot says of
him: "Cervantes was an illustrious man before he became an illustrious
author; the doer of great deeds before he produced an immortal book."
Don Lope de Figueras then commanded a regiment of tried and veteran
soldiers in the army of the Duke of Alva, in Portugal. His brother
Roderigo was serving in it when he joined it; and as Figueras had known
Cervantes in former campaigns, it is most probable he was in his
regiment. Later on, we find Cervantes accompanying the Marquis de Santa
Cruz on an expedition to the Azores, serving long and bravely under him.
The conquest of the Azores is described as a fiercely won but brilliant
victory over all the islands; and Cervantes immortalized the genius and
gallantry of the admiral in a sonnet.

The spirit of adventure ran high among the Castilians, while the whole
nation was at the same time in course of mental as well as moral
development. We are obliged to acknowledge that Spain in many ways was
far behind Italy, though hardly as some would have it, at the distance
of half a century. We must remember that, in 1530, there were only two
hundred printing-presses in the whole of Europe, and that when the first
one was set up in London, the Westminster abbot exclaimed, "Brethren,
this is a tremendous engine! We must control it, or it will conquer us."
The first press in Spain was set up in Valencia, in 1474, and Clemencin
says that more printing-presses in the infancy of the art were probably
at work in Spain than there are at the present day.

A change seemed to have crept gradually over the whole national
character of Spain after the brilliant and prosperous reign of Ferdinand
and Isabella, commencing with the severity of the Inquisition and
continuing under the tyranny of Philip II., predisposing the army to
savage deeds, till even the women and children were infected and the
literature of the period slightly tinged.

Cervantes is too often merged into Don Quixote as if he had no separate
existence. He accomplished more for the improvement of Spanish
literature with his well-timed satire than all the laws or sermons could
effect. His remarkable mind seems to have escaped the influence of the
times, unless we make an exception of his drama "Numancia," which, while
it excites the imagination, fills us with horror at its details, and
fails to touch our hearts, but is full of historical truths. Schlegel,
however, reviews it with enthusiasm. He calls his "Life in Algiers" a
comedy, but undoubtedly it is a true picture of his own captivity. We
are touched and filled with gloom at its perusal, and only remember it
as a tragedy. These two dramas were lost sight of till the end of the
eighteenth century, and they are superior to later dramatic efforts. He
was proud of his original conception of a tragedy composed of ideal and
allegorical characters which he permitted to have part in the "Life in
Algiers," as well as in "Numancia." Of the thirty plays spoken of as
given to the stage but few now remain; but others may yet be found. The
Spaniards say the faults of a great writer are not left in the
ink-stand. Spain, in Cervantes' day, had passed the chivalric age,
though many relics of it still remained in its legends, songs, and
proverbs. Cervantes becomes his own critic in his "Supplement to a
Journey to Parnassus," and speaking of his dramas, says: "I should
declare them worthy the favor they have received were they not my own."
Unfortunately, his comedy of "La Confusa" is among the lost ones. He
alludes to it as a good one among the best.

We have known Cervantes as a student, a soldier, a captive, and an
author, and now we have to imagine our maimed and bronzed soldier-poet,
after his many fortunes of war, in the new character of a lover. In
thought we trace his noble features, his intelligent look and expressive
eye, combined with his dignified bearing and thoughtful manner, and in
so tracing we find it congenial to imagine him as being well dressed and
enveloped in the ample Spanish cloak thrown gracefully over his breast
and left shoulder, concealing the poor mutilated arm, and at the same
time making it all the more difficult to believe that the right one had
ever wielded a "Toledo blade" or sworn that very strongest vow of
loyalty, "A fe de Rodrigo."[1]

We find him much interested in the quaint old-fashioned town of
Esquivias, making many friends therein, and sometimes gossiping with the
host of the _fonda_, so famed for the generous wines of Esquivias that
it needed no "bush;" and while enjoying his cigarito and taking an
occasional morsel from the dish of _quisado_ before him, he is learning
from the same gossiping host many items of interest about the very
illustrious families of Esquivias,--for it was famed for its chivalrous
prowess and its "claims of long descent." He had commenced his
"Galatea," and in it he was painting living portraits, and with great
delicacy he was, as the shepherd Elicio, portraying his passion for
Catalina, the daughter of Fernando de Salazar ý Voxmediano and Catalina
de Palacios, both of illustrious families. Her father was dead, and she
had been educated by her uncle, Francisco de Salazar, who left her a
legacy in his will.

The fair Catalina, like other Spanish señoritas, was under the espionage
of a strict dueña, and his opportunities of seeing her were very
limited. Sometimes we fancy him awaiting the passing of the hour of the
siesta and knocking at the grating of the heavy door of the house of the
Salazars, and in reply to the porter's question of _Quien es_?
answering, in his melodious tones, _Gente de paz_ (literally, "a
friend"),--a precaution which still continues in Spain. Meanwhile, his
romance of "Galatea" and of his own life are both growing. The occasion
inspires him. He is still in Esquivias, wandering through the olive
groves and by the river side, sometimes resting, and drinking in the
fragrance from an orange-tree while his untold wealth of brain was
seeking for its exit. Sometimes he had Catalina for a companion, the
dueña lingering slightly behind. Sometimes he saw her at the church like
a fair saint, kneeling; but oftener he wandered alone with his now happy
thoughts, scarce knowing that the night was closing about him, or scarce
heeding the watchman who cried, "All hail, Mary, mother of Jesus! half
past twelve o'clock and a cloudy morning!" and thus, to this day, are
the Spaniards warned of the hour and the weather. His "Galatea" remains
unfinished. He had not meant that all this song should be for the public
ear. The end was for his love alone!

On the 12th of December, 1584, he was married to Catalina. Not many
years ago, the marriage contract was found in the public registry of
Esquivias. It contains an inventory of the marriage-dowry promised by
the bride's mother, of "lands, furniture, utensils, and live-stock."
Then follows the details, "several vineyards, amounting to twelve acres,
beds, chairs, brooms, brushes, poultry, and sundry sacks of flour." It
is spoken of as a very respectable dowry at a time when sacks of wheat
were worth eight reals. Then follows, in the same document, his own
settlement upon his wife, which is stated to be one hundred ducats. By
the custom of the time that was one-tenth of his whole property, or to
quote again, which "must have amounted to a thousand ducats, which at
present would be equivalent to about four hundred and fifty pounds
sterling." Gladly would we find some pleasant items of happy home life,
though, for the next four years, he lived quietly at Esquivias, and
cared for the vineyards like any landholder, till, perhaps, he tired and
went on to Seville, where he took up some mercantile business, though
never entirely giving up the pen; but from 1598 till 1605, there are no
real traces of him, when it would appear that he had removed to
Valladolid.

There is little doubt but that he suffered both in purse and feeling
from want of appreciation; but the Spanish proverb says, "An author's
work who looks to money is the coat of a tailor who works late on the
vespers of Easter Sunday." He had too noble a mind to harbor so mean a
sentiment as jealousy, and was far in advance of his age. His
countrymen, with characteristic indolence, were ready to cry, _manaña,
manaña_ (to-morrow, to-morrow), and so it was left for later generations
to honor his memory, for his power of invention and purity of
imagination can never be rivalled. While acting as clerk in Seville to
Antonio de Guevara, the Commissary-General to the Indian and American
dependencies, he must have been sadly disappointed, particularly as,
during that time, he had been unjustly thrown into prison on the plea of
not accounting for trust-money with satisfaction. Mr. Ticknor gives the
following interesting account: "During his residence at Seville,
Cervantes made an ineffectual application to the king for an appointment
in America, setting forth by the exact documents a general account of
his adventures, services, and sufferings while a soldier in the Levant,
and of the miseries of his life while a slave in Algiers; but no other
than a formal answer seems to have been returned to his application, and
the whole affair leaves us to infer the severity of that distress which
could induce him to seek relief in exile to a colony of which he has
elsewhere spoken as the great resort for rogues." The appointment he
desired was either corregidor (or mayor) of the city of Paz or the
auditorship of New Grenada, the governorship of the province of
Socunusco or that of the galleys of Carthagena. His removal to
Valladolid seems to have been by command of the revenue authorities,
where he still collected taxes for public and private persons. While
collecting for the prior of the order of St. John, he was again
ill-treated and thrown into prison.

Not till he was fifty-eight years old did he give to the world his
master-piece, and thus immortalizes La Mancha, in return for his
inhospitable and cruel treatment. "Don Quixote" was licensed at
Valladolid in 1604, and printed at Madrid in 1605. Its success was so
great that, during his lifetime, thirty thousand volumes were printed,
which in that day was little short of marvellous. Four editions were
published the first year, two at Madrid, one at Valencia, and one at
Lisbon. Byron says: "Cervantes laugh'd Spain's chivalry away!" So
popular was it, that a spurious second part, under the fictitious
authorship of Avellanada was published. Cervantes was furious, and
called him a blockhead; but Germond de Lavigue, the distinguished
Spanish scholar, rashly asserts that but for this Avellanada, he would
never have finished "Don Quixote." Even before it was printed, jealousy
evidently existed in the hearts of rival writers, for in one of Lope's
letters he refers to it, and spitefully hints that no poet could be
found to write commendatory verses on it.

He recognized the fact of universal selfishness when he makes Sancho
Panza refuse to learn the Don's love-letter and say, "Write it, your
worship, for it's sheer nonsense to trust anything to my memory."

Spain is so full of rich material for romance that from it his mature
mind seemed to inaugurate a new age in Spanish literature. After the
gloomy intolerance of Philip II., the advent of Philip III. added much
to the literary freedom of Spain, which still belonged to the "Age of
Chivalry," and to this day the true Spaniard nourishes the lofty and
romantic qualities which, combined with a tone of sentiment and gravity
and nobility of conversation, embellishes the legitimate grandee.
Sismondi de Sismondi says the style of "Don Quixote" is inimitable.
Montesquieu says: "It is written to prove all others useless." To some
it is an allegory, to some a tragedy, to some a parable, and to others a
satire. As a satirist we think him unrivalled, and this spirit found a
choice opportunity for vent when the troops of Don Carlos I. marched
upon Rome, taking Pope Clement VII. prisoner, while at the same time the
king was having prayers said in the churches of Madrid for the
deliverance of the Pope, on the plea that "he was obliged to make war
against the _temporal_ sovereign of Rome, but not upon the spiritual
head of the Church!" No wonder the king, after proving himself so good a
Catholic, should end his days in a monastery, or that he should mortify
himself by lying in a coffin, wrapped in a shroud, while funeral
services were performed over him. What, again, could have appealed more
to his sense of the ridiculous than the contest between the priests and
the authorities over the funeral obsequies of Philip II., so intolerant
a tyrant that he caused every Spaniard to breathe more freely as he
ceased so to do. He used his people as

  "Broken tools, that tyrants cast away
   By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
   With human hearts."


We can easily believe in the greater freedom during the reign of Philip
III. "Viva el Rey."

The Count de Lemos was his near friend and protector when he brought out
the second part of "Don Quixote," and ridiculed his rival imitator. He
was a pioneer of so elevated a character as to preclude the possibility
of followers. Every one is familiar with it as a story, and the mishaps
of the gentle, noble-minded, kind-hearted old Don, as well as the
delusions, simplicity, and selfishness of the devoted squire, will never
lose their power to amuse. It may be extravagant, but it is not a
burlesque. The strong character painting, the ideas, situations, and
language, clothed in such simplicity that at times it becomes almost
solemn, give it a grandeur that no other book, considered as a romance,
possesses. The old anecdote of the king observing a student walking by
the river side and bursting into involuntary fits of laughter over a
book, exclaiming, "The man is either mad or reading 'Don Quixote,'" is
well preserved. One peculiar feature of the book is that, even now, for
some places, it would be a useful guide, many of the habits and customs
of Spain three hundred years ago being still the same. What a volume of
wit and wisdom is contained in the proverbs and aphorisms. One might
quote from it indefinitely had he not told us that "without discretion
there is no wit." His own motive in writing it we find in the last
paragraph of the book, namely, "My sole object has been to expose to the
contempt they deserved the extravagant and silly tricks of chivalry,
which this my true and genuine 'Don Quixote' has nearly accomplished,
their worldly credit being now actually tottering, and will doubtless
soon sink, never to rise again."

Now, all languages have it. There are eight translations into English
alone; but it is always impossible for the translator to render its true
spirit or to give it full justice. With all its vivacity and drollery,
its delicate satire and keen ridicule, it has a mournful tinge of
melancholy running through, and here and there peeping out, only to have
been gathered from such experience as his. He wrote with neither
bitterness nor a diseased imagination, always realizing what is due to
himself and with a full appreciation of and desire for fame. Many scenes
of real suffering appear under a dramatic guise, and here and there
creep out bits of personal history. His nature was chivalrous in the
highest degree. His sorrows were greater than his joys. Born for the
library, he prefers the camp, and abandons literature to fight the
Turks. Does he not make the Don say, "Let none presume to tell me the
pen is preferable to the sword." Again he says: "Allowing that the end
of war is peace, and that in this it exceeds the end of learning, let us
weigh the bodily labors the scholar undergoes against those the warrior
suffers, and then see which are the greatest." Then he enumerates:
"First, poverty; and having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing
more need be urged to express his misery, for he that is poor enjoys no
happiness, but labors under this poverty in all its guises, at one time
in hunger, at another in cold, another in nakedness, and sometimes in
all of them together." Later on he makes him say: "It gives me some
concern to think that powder and lead may suddenly cut short my career
of glory."

The world can only be grateful that "his career of glory" did not end in
the military advancement he had the right to expect. Had he been a
general, his Rozinante might still have been wandering without a name,
and Sancho Panza have died a common laborer. Again he says: "Would to
God I could find a place to serve as a private tomb for this wearisome
burden of life which I bear so much against my inclination." Surviving
almost unheard-of grievances only to emerge from them with greater
power; depicting in his works true outlines of his own adventures,
sometimes by a proverb, often by a romance, he never loses one jot of
his pride, giving golden advice to Sancho when a governor, and finishing
with the expression, "So may'st thou escape the PITY of the world." In
May, 1605, he was called upon as a witness in a case of a man who was
mortally wounded and dragged at night into his apartment, which almost
accidentally gives us his household, consisting of his wife; his natural
daughter Isabel, twenty years of age, unmarried; his sister, a widow,
above fifty years; her unmarried daughter, aged twenty-eight; his
half-sister, a religieuse; and a maid-servant. His "Española Inglesa"
appeared in 1611. His moral tales, the pioneers in Spanish literature,
are a combination without special plan of serious and comic, romance and
anecdote, evidently giving, under the guise of fiction, poetically
colored bits of his own experience in Italy and Africa. In his story of
"La Gitanilla" (the gipsy girl) may be found the argument of Weber's
opera of "Preciosa." "Parnassus" was written two years before his death,
after which he wrote eight comedies and a sequel to his twelve moral
tales. In his story of "Rinconete ý Cortadilla" he evidently derives the
names from _rincon_ (a corner) and _cortar_ (to cut). His last work was
"Persiles and Sigismunda," the preface of which is a near presentiment
of his closing labors. He says: "Farewell, gayety; farewell, humor;
farewell, my pleasant friends. I must now die, and I desire nothing
more than to soon see you again happy in another world." His industry
was wonderful. We can but have a grateful feeling towards the Count de
Lemos for adding to his physical comfort for the last few years, and
feel a regret that the Count, who had lingered in Naples, could not have
arrived in time to see him once more when he so ardently desired it. In
a dedication to the Count of his final romance, written only four days
before his death, he very touchingly says: "I could have wished not to
have been obliged to make so close a personal application of the old
verses commencing 'With the foot already in the stirrup,' for with very
little alteration I may truly say that with my foot in the stirrup,
feeling this moment the pains of dissolution, I address this letter to
you. Yesterday I received extreme unction. To-day I have resumed my pen.
Time is short, my pains increase, my hopes diminish, yet I do wish my
life might be prolonged till I could see you again in Spain." His wish
was not to be gratified; the Count, unaware of the near danger of his
friend, only returned to find himself overwhelmed with grief at his
loss.

After sixty-nine years of varied fortunes and many struggles, Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra breathed his last, unsoothed by the hands he had
loved, for even this privilege seems to have been denied to him. At the
near end of his life he had joined the kindly third order of the
Franciscan friars, and the brethren cared for him at the last. His
remarkable clearness of intellect never failed him, and on April 23,
1616, the very day that Shakspeare died at Stratford, Cervantes died at
Madrid. Unlike the great English contemporary, whose undisturbed bones
have lain quietly under peril of his malediction, the bones of the great
Spanish poet were irrevocably lost when the old Convent of the Trinity,
in the Calle del Humilladero, was destroyed. Ungrateful Spain! the spot
had never been marked with a common tombstone.

The old house[2] in the Calle de Francos, where he died, was so
dilapidated that, in 1835, it was destroyed. It was rebuilt, and a
marble bust of Cervantes was placed over the entrance by the sculptor,
Antonio Sola.

The "Madrid Epoca," under the heading of "The Prison of Cervantes,"
calls attention to the alarming state of decay of the house in
Argamasilla del Alba, in the cellar of which, as an extemporized
dungeon, tradition asserts that Cervantes was imprisoned, and where he
penned at least a portion of his work. It was in this cellar that, a few
years since, the Madrid publishing house of Rivadeneyra erected a press
and printed their edition _de luxe_ of "Don Quijote." The house was,
some years since, purchased by the late Infante Don Sebastian, with a
view to a complete and careful restoration; but political changes and
his death prevented a realization of his project. The "Epoca" now calls
public attention to the state of decay of the house, with a view to an
immediate restoration.

In the Plaza de las Cortes, the city of Madrid has placed a beautiful
bronze statue of Cervantes upon a square pedestal of granite. Upon the
sides are bas-reliefs representing subjects taken from "Don Quijote de
la Mancha."

The present time honors his memory; and for all time he will live in the
hearts of all true lovers of genius.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

EMMA THOMPSON.

[Illustration: SANCHO PANZA.]



WIT AND WISDOM

OF

DON QUIXOTE.


Down in a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to
recollect, there lived, not long ago, one of those gentlemen who usually
keep a lance upon a rack, an old buckler, a lean horse, and a coursing
grayhound. Soup, composed of somewhat more mutton than beef, the
fragments served up cold on most nights, lentils on Fridays, collops and
eggs on Saturdays, and a pigeon by way of addition on Sundays, consumed
three-fourths of his income; the remainder of it supplied him with a
cloak of fine cloth, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same for
holidays, and a suit of the best homespun, in which he adorned himself
on week-days. His family consisted of a housekeeper above forty, a niece
not quite twenty, and a lad who served him both in the field and at
home, who could saddle the horse or handle the pruning-hook. The age of
our gentleman bordered upon fifty years: he was of a strong
constitution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage, a very early riser, and
a lover of the chase. Some pretend to say that his surname was Quixada
or Quesada, for on this point his historians differ; though, from very
probable conjectures, we may conclude that his name was Quixana. This
is, however, of little importance to our history; let it suffice that,
in relating it, we do not swerve a jot from the truth.

In fine, his judgment being completely obscured, he was seized with one
of the strangest fancies that ever entered the head of any madman; this
was, a belief that it behooved him, as well for the advancement of his
glory as the service of his country, to become a knight-errant, and
traverse the world, armed and mounted, in quest of adventures, and to
practice all that had been performed by knights-errant of whom he had
read; redressing every species of grievance, and exposing himself to
dangers, which, being surmounted, might secure to him eternal glory and
renown. The poor gentleman imagined himself at least crowned Emperor of
Trebisond, by the valor of his arm; and thus wrapped in these agreeable
delusions and borne away by the extraordinary pleasure he found in them,
he hastened to put his designs into execution.

The first thing he did was to scour up some rusty armor which had been
his great-grandfather's, and had lain many years neglected in a corner.
This he cleaned and adjusted as well as he could; but he found one grand
defect,--the helmet was incomplete, having only the morion. This
deficiency, however, he ingeniously supplied by making a kind of visor
of pasteboard, which, being fixed to the morion, gave the appearance of
an entire helmet. It is true, indeed, that, in order to prove its
strength, he drew his sword, and gave it two strokes, the first of which
instantly demolished the labor of a week; but not altogether approving
of the facility with which it was destroyed, and in order to secure
himself against a similar misfortune, he made another visor, which,
having fenced in the inside with small bars of iron, he felt assured of
its strength, and, without making any more experiments, held it to be a
most excellent helmet.

In the next place he visited his steed; and although this animal had
more blemishes than the horse of Gonela, which, "_tantum pellis et ossa
fuit_," yet, in his eyes, neither the Bucephalus of Alexander nor the
Cid's Babieca, could be compared with him. Four days was he deliberating
upon what name he should give him; for, as he said to himself, it would
be very improper that a horse so excellent, appertaining to a knight so
famous, should be without an appropriate name; he therefore endeavored
to find one that should express what he had been before he belonged to a
knight-errant, and also what he now was: nothing could, indeed, be more
reasonable than that, when the master changed his state, the horse
should likewise change his name and assume one pompous and
high-sounding, as became the new order he now professed. So, after
having devised, altered, lengthened, curtailed, rejected, and again
framed in his imagination a variety of names, he finally determined upon
Rozinante, a name in his opinion lofty, sonorous, and full of meaning;
importing that he had only been a rozin--a drudge horse--before his
present condition, and that now he was before all the rozins in the
world.

Having given his horse a name so much to his satisfaction, he resolved
to fix upon one for himself. This consideration employed him eight more
days, when at length he determined to call himself Don Quixote; whence
some of the historians of this most true history have concluded that his
name was certainly Quixada, and not Quesada, as others would have it.
Then recollecting that the valorous Amadis, not content with the simple
appellation of Amadis, added thereto the name of his kingdom and native
country, in order to render it famous, styling himself Amadis de Gaul;
so he, like a good knight, also added the name of his province, and
called himself Don Quixote de la Mancha; whereby, in his opinion, he
fully proclaimed his lineage and country, which, at the same time, he
honored by taking its name.

His armor being now furbished, his helmet made perfect, his horse and
himself provided with names, he found nothing wanting but a lady to be
in love with, as he said,--

"A knight-errant without a mistress was a tree without either fruit or
leaves, and a body without a soul!"

One morning before day, being one of the most sultry in the month of
July, he armed himself cap-a-pie, mounted Rozinante, placed the helmet
on his head, braced on his target, took his lance, and, through the
private gate of his back yard, issued forth into the open plain, in a
transport of joy to think he had met with no obstacles to the
commencement of his honorable enterprise. But scarce had he found
himself on the plain when he was assailed by a recollection so terrible
as almost to make him abandon the undertaking; for it just then occurred
to him that he was not yet dubbed a knight; therefore, in conformity to
the laws of chivalry, he neither could nor ought to enter the lists
against any of that order; and, if he had been actually dubbed he
should, as a new knight, have worn white armor, without any device on
his shield, until he had gained one by force of arms. These
considerations made him irresolute whether to proceed, but frenzy
prevailing over reason, he determined to get himself made a knight by
the first one he should meet, like many others of whom he had read. As
to white armor, he resolved, when he had an opportunity, to scour his
own, so that it should be whiter than ermine. Having now composed his
mind, he proceeded, taking whatever road his horse pleased; for therein,
he believed, consisted the true spirit of adventure. Everything that our
adventurer saw and conceived was, by his imagination, moulded to what he
had read; so in his eyes the inn appeared to be a castle, with its four
turrets, and pinnacles of shining silver, together with its drawbridge,
deep moat, and all the appurtenances with which such castles are
visually described. When he had advanced within a short distance of it,
he checked Rozinante, expecting some dwarf would mount the battlements,
to announce by sound of trumpet the arrival of a knight-errant at the
castle; but, finding them tardy, and Rozinante impatient for the
stable, he approached the inn-door, and there saw the two girls, who to
him appeared to be beautiful damsels or lovely dames enjoying themselves
before the gate of their castle.

It happened that, just at this time, a swineherd collecting his hogs (I
make no apology, for so they are called) from an adjoining stubblefield,
blew the horn which assembles them together, and instantly Don Quixote
was satisfied, for he imagined it was a dwarf who had given the signal
of his arrival. With extraordinary satisfaction, therefore, he went up
to the inn; upon which the ladies, being startled at the sight of a man
armed in that manner, with lance and buckler, were retreating into the
house; but Don Quixote, perceiving their alarm, raised his pasteboard
visor, thereby partly discovering his meagre, dusty visage, and with
gentle demeanor and placid voice, thus addressed them: "Fly not, ladies,
nor fear any discourtesy, for it would be wholly inconsistent with the
order of knighthood, which I profess, to offer insult to any person,
much less to virgins of that exalted rank which your appearance
indicates." The girls stared at him, and were endeavoring to find out
his face, which was almost concealed by the sorry visor; but hearing
themselves called virgins, they could not forbear laughing, and to such
a degree that Don Quixote was displeased, and said to them: "Modesty
well becomes beauty, and excessive laughter proceeding from slight cause
is folly."

This language, so unintelligible to the ladies, added to the uncouth
figure of our knight, increased their laughter; consequently he grew
more indignant, and would have proceeded further but for the timely
appearance of the innkeeper, a very corpulent and therefore a very
pacific man, who, upon seeing so ludicrous an object, armed, and with
accoutrements so ill-sorted as were the bridle, lance, buckler, and
corselet, felt disposed to join the damsels in demonstrations of mirth;
but, in truth, apprehending some danger from a form thus strongly
fortified, he resolved to behave with civility, and therefore said, "If,
Sir Knight, you are seeking for a lodging, you will here find, excepting
a bed (for there are none in this inn), everything in abundance." Don
Quixote, perceiving the humility of the governor of the fortress,--for
such to him appeared the innkeeper,--answered, "For me, Signor
Castellano, anything will suffice, since arms are my ornaments, warfare
my repose." The host thought he called him Castellano because he took
him for a sound Castilian, whereas he was an Andalusian of the coast of
St. Lucar, as great a thief as Cacus and not less mischievous than a
collegian or a page; and he replied, "If so, your worship's beds must be
hard rocks, and your sleep continual watching; and that being the case,
you may dismount with a certainty of finding here sufficient cause for
keeping awake the whole year, much more a single night." So saying, he
laid hold of Don Quixote's stirrup, who alighted with much difficulty
and pain, for he had fasted the whole of the day. He then desired the
host to take especial care of his steed, for it was the finest creature
ever fed; the innkeeper examined him, but thought him not so good by
half as his master had represented him. Having led the horse to the
stable he returned to receive the orders of his guest, whom the damsels,
being now reconciled to him, were disarming; they had taken off the back
and breast plates, but endeavored in vain to disengage the gorget, or
take off the counterfeit beaver, which he had fastened with green
ribbons in such a manner that they could not be untied, and he would
upon no account allow them to be cut; therefore he remained all that
night with his helmet on, the strangest and most ridiculous figure
imaginable.

While these light girls, whom he still conceived to be persons of
quality and ladies of the castle, were disarming him, he said to them,
with infinite grace: "Never before was knight so honored by ladies as
Don Quixote, after his departure from his native village! damsels
attended upon him; princesses took charge of his steed! O
Rosinante,--for that, ladies, is the name of my horse, and Don Quixote
de la Mancha my own; although it was not my intention to have discovered
myself until deeds performed in your service should have proclaimed me;
but impelled to make so just an application of that ancient romance of
Lanzarote to my present situation, I have thus prematurely disclosed my
name: yet the time shall come when your ladyships may command, and I
obey; when the valor of my arm shall make manifest the desire I have to
serve you." The girls, unaccustomed to such rhetorical flourishes, made
no reply, but asked whether he would please to eat anything. "I shall
willingly take some food," answered Don Quixote, "for I apprehend it
would be of much service to me." That day happened to be Friday, and
there was nothing in the house but some fish of that kind which in
Castile is called Abadexo; in Andalusia, Bacallao; in some parts,
Curadillo: and in others, Truchuela. They asked if his worship would
like some truchuela, for they had no other fish to offer him. "If there
be many troutlings," replied Don Quixote, "they will supply the place of
one trout; for it is the same to me whether I receive eight single rials
or one piece-of-eight. Moreover, these troutlings may be preferable, as
veal is better than beef, and kid superior to goat. Be that as it may,
let it come immediately, for the toil and weight of arms cannot be
sustained by the body unless the interior be supplied with aliments."
For the benefit of the cool air, they placed the table at the door of
the inn, and the landlord produced some of his ill-soaked and
worse-cooked bacallao, with bread as foul and black as the knight's
armor. But it was a spectacle highly risible to see him eat; for his
hands being engaged in holding his helmet on and raising the beaver, he
could not feed himself, therefore one of the ladies performed that
office for him; but to drink would have been utterly impossible had not
the innkeeper bored a reed, and placing one end into his mouth at the
other poured in the wine; and all this he patiently endured rather than
cut the lacings of his helmet.



THE PLEASANT METHOD DON QUIXOTE TOOK TO BE
DUBBED A KNIGHT.

It troubled him to reflect that he was not yet a knight, feeling
persuaded that he could not lawfully engage in any adventure until he
had been invested with the order of knighthood.

Agitated by this idea, he abruptly finished his scanty supper, called
the innkeeper, and, shutting himself up with him in the stable, he fell
on his knees before him and said, "Never will I arise from this place,
valorous knight, until your courtesy shall vouchsafe to grant a boon
which it is my intention to request,--a boon that will redound to your
glory and to the benefit of all mankind." The innkeeper, seeing his
guest at his feet and hearing such language, stood confounded and stared
at him without knowing what to do or say; he entreated him to rise, but
in vain, until he had promised to grant the boon he requested. "I
expected no less, signor, from your great magnificence," replied Don
Quixote; "know, therefore, that the boon I have demanded, and which your
liberality has conceded, is that on the morrow you will confer upon me
the honor of knighthood. This night I will watch my arms in the chapel
of your castle, in order that, in the morning, my earnest desire may be
fulfilled and I may with propriety traverse the four quarters of the
world in quest of adventures for the relief of the distressed,
conformable to the duties of chivalry and of knights-errant, who, like
myself, are devoted to such pursuits."

The host, who, as we have said, was a shrewd fellow, and had already
entertained some doubts respecting the wits of his guest, was now
confirmed in his suspicions; and to make sport for the night, determined
to follow his humor. He told him, therefore, that his desire was very
reasonable, and that such pursuits were natural and suitable to knights
so illustrious as he appeared to be, and as his gallant demeanor fully
testified; that he had himself in the days of his youth followed that
honorable profession, and travelled over various parts of the world in
search of adventures; failing not to visit the suburbs of Malaga, the
isles of Riaran, the compass of Seville, the market-place of Segovia,
the olive-field of Valencia, the rondilla of Grenada, the coast of St.
Lucar, the fountain of Cordova, the taverns of Toledo, and divers other
parts, where he had exercised the agility of his heels and the dexterity
of his hands; committing sundry wrongs, soliciting widows, seducing
damsels, cheating youths,--in short, making himself known to most of the
tribunals in Spain; and that, finally, he had retired to this castle,
where he lived upon his revenue and that of others, entertaining therein
all knights-errant of every quality and degree solely for the great
affection he bore them, and that they might share their fortune with him
in return for his good will. He further told him that in his castle
there was no chapel wherein he could watch his armor, for it had been
pulled down in order to be rebuilt; but that, in cases of necessity, he
knew it might be done wherever he pleased. Therefore, he might watch it
that night in a court of the castle, and the following morning, if it
pleased God, the requisite ceremonies should be performed, and he should
be dubbed so effectually that the world would not be able to produce a
more perfect knight. He then inquired if he had any money about him. Don
Quixote told him he had none, having never read in their histories that
knights-errant provided themselves with money. The innkeeper assured
him he was mistaken; for, admitting that it was not mentioned in their
history, the authors deeming it unnecessary to specify things so
obviously requisite as money and clean shirts, yet was it not therefore
to be inferred that they had none; but, on the contrary, he might
consider it as an established fact that all knights-errant, of whose
histories so many volumes are filled, carried their purses well provided
against accidents; that they were also supplied with shirts, and a small
casket of ointments to heal the wounds they might receive, for in plains
and deserts, where they fought and were wounded, no aid was near unless
they had some sage enchanter for their friend, who could give them
immediate assistance by conveying in cloud through the air some damsel
or dwarf, with a phial of water possessed of such virtue that, upon
tasting a single drop of it, they should instantly become as sound as if
they had received no injury. But when the knights of former times were
without such a friend, they always took care that their esquires should
be provided with money and such necessary articles as lint and salves;
and when they had no esquires--which very rarely happened--they carried
these things themselves upon the crupper of their horse, in wallets so
small as to be scarcely visible, that they might seem to be something of
more importance; for, except in such cases, the custom of carrying
wallets was not tolerated among knights-errant. He therefore advised,
though, as his godson (which he was soon to be), he might command him,
never henceforth to travel without money and the aforesaid provisions,
and he would find them serviceable when he least expected it. Don
Quixote promised to follow his advice with punctuality: and an order was
now given for performing the watch of the armor in a large yard
adjoining the inn. Don Quixote, having collected it together placed it
on a cistern which was close to a well; then, bracing on his target and
grasping his lance, with graceful demeanor he paced to and fro before
the pile, beginning his parade as soon as it was dark.

The innkeeper informed all who were in the inn of the frenzy of his
guest, the watching of his armor, and of the intended knighting.

The host repeated to him that there was no chapel in the castle, nor was
it by any means necessary for what remained to be done; that the stroke
of knighting consisted in blows on the neck and shoulders, according to
the ceremonial of the order, which might be effectually performed in the
middle of the field; that the duty of watching his armor he had now
completely fulfilled, for he had watched more than four hours, though
only two were required. All this Don Quixote believed, and said that he
was there ready to obey him, requesting him, at the same time, to
perform the deed as soon as possible; because, should he be assaulted
again when he found himself knighted, he was resolved not to leave one
person alive in the castle, excepting those whom, out of respect to him,
and at his particular request, he might be induced to spare. The
constable, thus warned and alarmed, immediately brought forth a book in
which he kept his account of the straw and oats he furnished to the
carriers, and attended by a boy, who carried an end of candle, and the
two damsels before mentioned, went towards Don Quixote, whom he
commanded to kneel down; he then began reading in his manual, as if it
were some devout prayer, in the course of which he raised his hand and
gave him a good blow on the neck, and, after that, a handsome stroke
over the shoulders, with his own sword, still muttering between his
teeth, as if in prayer. This being done, he commanded one of the ladies
to gird on his sword, an office she performed with much alacrity, as
well as discretion, no small portion of which was necessary to avoid
bursting with laughter at every part of the ceremony; but indeed the
prowess they had seen displayed by the new knight kept their mirth
within bounds.

At girding on the sword, the good lady said: "God grant you may be a
fortunate knight and successful in battle."

Don Quixote inquired her name, that he might thenceforward know to whom
he was indebted for the favor received, as it was his intention to
bestow upon her some share of the honor he should acquire by the valor
of his arm. She replied, with much humility, that her name was Tolosa,
and that she was the daughter of a cobbler at Toledo, who lived at the
stalls of Sanchobienaya; and that, wherever she was, she would serve and
honor him as her lord. Don Quixote, in reply, requested her, for his
sake, to do him the favor henceforth to add to her name the title of
don, and call herself Donna Tolosa, which she promised to do. The other
girl now buckled on his spur, and with her he held nearly the same
conference as with the lady of the sword; having inquired her name, she
told him it was Molinera, and that she was daughter to an honest miller
of Antiquera: he then requested her likewise to assume the don, and
style herself Donna Molinera, renewing his proffers of service and
thanks.

These never-till-then-seen ceremonies being thus speedily performed, Don
Quixote was impatient to find himself on horseback, in quest of
adventures. He therefore instantly saddled Rozinante, mounted him, and,
embracing his host, made his acknowledgments for the favor he had
conferred by knighting him, in terms so extraordinary, that it would be
in vain to attempt to repeat them. The host, in order to get rid of him
the sooner, replied, with no less flourish, but more brevity; and,
without making any demand for his lodging, wished him a good journey.

  The tongue slow and the eyes quick.

  Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.

  The brave man carves out his own fortune.

Very full of pain, yet soon as he was able to stir, he began to roll
himself on the ground, and to repeat, in what they affirm was said by
the wounded knight of the wood:--

  "Where art thou, mistress of my heart,
      Unconscious of thy lover's smart?
   Ah me! thou know'st not my distress,
      Or thou art false and pitiless."

"I know who I am," answered Don Quixote; "and I know, too, that I am not
only capable of being those I have mentioned, but all the twelve peers
of France, yea, and the nine worthies, since my exploits will far exceed
all that they have jointly or separately achieved."



DESTRUCTION OF DON QUIXOTE'S LIBRARY.

Long and heavy was the sleep of Don Quixote: meanwhile the priest having
asked the niece for the key of the chamber containing the books, those
authors of the mischief, which she delivered with a very good will, they
entered, attended by the housekeeper, and found above a hundred large
volumes well bound, besides a great number of smaller size. No sooner
did the housekeeper see them than she ran out of the room in great
haste, and immediately returned with a pot of holy water and a bunch of
hyssop, saying: "Signor Licentiate, take this and sprinkle the room,
lest some enchanter of the many that these books abound with should
enchant us, as a punishment for our intention to banish them out of the
world."

The priest smiled at the housekeeper's simplicity, and ordered the
barber to reach him the books one by one, that they might see what they
treated of, as they might perhaps find some that deserved not to be
chastised by fire.

"No," said the niece, "there is no reason why any of them should be
spared, for they have all been mischief-makers: so let them all be
thrown out of the window into the courtyard; and having made a pile of
them, set fire to it; or else make a bonfire of them in the back yard,
where the smoke will offend nobody."

The housekeeper said the same, so eagerly did they both thirst for the
death of those innocents. But the priest would not consent to it without
first reading the titles at least.

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands was "Amadis de Gaul,"
in four parts; and the priest said: "There seems to be some mystery in
this, for I have heard say that this was the first book of chivalry
printed in Spain, and that all the rest had their foundation and rise
from it; I think, therefore, as head of so pernicious a sect, we ought
to condemn him to the fire without mercy."

"Not so," said the barber; "for I have heard also that it is the best of
all the books of this kind: therefore, as being unequalled in its way,
it ought to be spared."

"You are right," said the priest, "and for that reason its life is
granted for the present. Let us see that other next to him."

"It is," said the barber, "the 'Adventures of Esplandian,' the
legitimate son of 'Amadis de Gaul.'"

"Verily," said the priest, "the goodness of the father shall avail the
son nothing; take him, Mistress Housekeeper; open that casement, and
throw him into the yard, and let him make a beginning to the pile for
the intended bonfire."

The housekeeper did so with much satisfaction, and good Esplandian was
sent flying into the yard, there to wait with patience for the fire with
which he was threatened.

"Proceed," said the priest.

"The next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of Greece;' yea, and all these
on this side, I believe, are of the lineage of Amadis."

"Then into the yard with them all!" quoth the priest; "for rather than
not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel with his
eclogues, and the devilish perplexities of the author, I would burn the
father who begot me, were I to meet him in the shape of a
knight-errant."

"Of the same opinion am I," said the barber.

"And I too," added the niece.

"Well, then," said the housekeeper, "away with them all into the yard."
They handed them to her; and, as they were numerous, to save herself the
trouble of the stairs, she threw them all out of the window.

"What tun of an author is that?" said the priest.

"This," answered the barber, "is 'Don Olivante de Laura.'"

"The author of that book," said the priest, "was the same who composed
the 'Garden of Flowers;' and in good truth I know not which of the two
books is the truest, or rather, the least lying: I can only say that
this goes to the yard for its arrogance and absurdity."

"This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hyrcania,'" said the barber.

"What! is Signor Florismarte there?" replied the priest; "now, by my
faith, he shall soon make his appearance in the yard, notwithstanding
his strange birth and chimerical adventures; for the harshness and
dryness of his style will admit of no excuse. To the yard with him, and
this other, Mistress Housekeeper.

"With all my heart, dear sir," answered she, and with much joy executed
what she was commanded.

"Here is the 'Knight Platir,'" said the barber.

"That," said the priest, "is an ancient book, and I find nothing in him
deserving pardon: without more words, let him be sent after the rest;"
which was accordingly done. They opened another book, and found it
entitled the "Knight of the Cross." "So religious a title," quoth the
priest, "might, one would think, atone for the ignorance of the author;
but it is a common saying 'the devil lurks behind the cross:' so to the
fire with him."

The barber, taking down another book, said, "This is 'The Mirror of
Chivalry.'"

"Oh! I know his worship very well," quoth the priest. "I am only for
condemning this to perpetual banishment because it contains some things
of the famous Mateo Boyardo.

"If I find him here uttering any other language than his own, I will
show no respect; but if he speaks in his own tongue, I will put him upon
my head."

"I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not understand him."

"Neither is it any great matter, whether you understand him or not,"
answered the priest; "and we would willingly have excused the good
captain from bringing him into Spain and making him a Castilian; for he
has deprived him of a great deal of his native value; which, indeed, is
the misfortune of all those who undertake the translation of poetry into
other languages; for, with all their care and skill, they can never
bring them on a level with the original production. This book, neighbor,
is estimable upon two accounts; the one, that it is very good of itself;
and the other, because there is a tradition that it was written by an
ingenious king of Portugal. All the adventures of the castle of
Miraguarda are excellent, and contrived with much art; the dialogue
courtly and clear; and all the characters preserved with great judgment
and propriety. Therefore, Master Nicholas, saving your better judgment,
let this and 'Amadis de Gaul' be exempted from the fire, and let all the
rest perish without any further inquiry."

"Not so, friend," replied the barber; "for this which I have here is the
renowned 'Don Bellianis.'"

The priest replied: "This, and the second, third, and fourth parts, want
a little rhubarb to purge away their excess of bile; besides, we must
remove all that relates to the castle of Fame, and other absurdities of
greater consequence; for which let sentence of transportation be passed
upon them, and, according as they show signs of amendment, they shall be
treated with mercy or justice. In the mean time, neighbor, give them
room in your house; but let them not be read."

"With all my heart," quoth the barber; and without tiring himself any
farther in turning over books of chivalry, bid the housekeeper take all
the great ones and throw them into the yard. This was not spoken to the
stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater mind to be burning them
than weaving the finest and largest web; and therefore, laying hold of
seven or eight at once, she tossed them out at the window.

But, in taking so many together, one fell at the barber's feet, who had
a mind to see what it was, and found it to be the history of the
renowned knight Tirante the White. "Heaven save me!" quoth the priest,
with a loud voice, "is Tirante the White there? Give him to me,
neighbor; for in him I shall have a treasure of delight, and a mine of
entertainment. Here we have Don Kyrie-Eleison of Montalvan, a valorous
knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, with the knight Fonseca,
and the combat which the valiant Tirante fought with the bull-dog, and
the witticisms of the damsel Plazerdemivida; also the amours and
artifices of the widow Reposada; and madam the Empress in love with her
squire Hypolito. Verily, neighbor, in its way it is the best book in the
world: here the knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds, and make
their wills before their deaths; with several things which are not to be
found in any other books of this kind. Notwithstanding this I tell you,
the author deserved, for writing so many foolish things seriously, to be
sent to the galleys for the whole of his life: carry it home, and read
it, and you will find all I say of him to be true."

"I will do so," answered the barber: "but what shall we do with these
small volumes that remain?"

"Those," said the priest, "are, probably, not books of chivalry, but of
poetry." Then opening one he found it was the 'Diana' of George de
Montemayor, and, concluding that all the others were of the same kind,
he said, "These do not deserve to be burnt like the rest; for they
cannot do the mischief that those of chivalry have done; they are works
of genius and fancy, and do injury to none."

"O sir," said the niece, "pray order them to be burnt with the rest; for
should my uncle be cured of this distemper of chivalry, he may possibly,
by reading such books, take it into his head to turn shepherd, and
wander through the woods and fields, singing and playing on a pipe; and
what would be still worse, turn poet, which, they say, is an incurable
and contagious disease."

"The damsel says true," quoth the priest, "and it will not be amiss to
remove this stumbling-block out of our friend's way. And, since we begin
with the 'Diana' of Montemayor, my opinion is that it should not be
burnt, but that all that part should be expunged which treats of the
sage Felicia, and of the enchanted fountain, and also most of the longer
poems; leaving him, in God's name, the prose and also the honor of being
the first in that kind of writing."

"The next that appears," said the barber, "is the Diana, called the
second, by Salmantino; and another, of the same name, whose author is
Gil Polo."

"The Salmantinian," answered the priest, "may accompany and increase the
number of the condemned--to the yard with him: but let that of Gil Polo
be preserved, as if it were written by Apollo himself. Proceed, friend,
and let us despatch; for it grows late."

"This," said the barber, opening another, "is the 'Ten Books of the
Fortune of Love,' composed by Antonio de lo Frasso, a Sardinian poet."

"By the holy orders I have received!" said the priest, "since Apollo was
Apollo, the muses muses, and the poets poets, so humorous and so
whimsical a book as this was never written; it is the best, and most
extraordinary of the kind that ever appeared in the world; and he who
has not read it may be assured that he has never read anything of taste:
give it me here, neighbor, for I am better pleased at finding it than if
I had been presented with a cassock of Florence satin." He laid it
aside, with great satisfaction, and the barber proceeded, saying:--

"These which follow are the 'Shepherd of Iberia,' the 'Nymphs of
Enares,' and the 'Cure of Jealousy.'"

"Then you have only to deliver them up to the secular arm of the
housekeeper," said the priest, "and ask me not why, for in that case we
should never have done."

"The next is the 'Shepherd of Filida.'"

"He is no shepherd," said the priest, "but an ingenious courtier; let
him be preserved, and laid up as a precious jewel."

"This bulky volume here," said the barber, "is entitled the 'Treasure of
Divers Poems.'"

"Had they been fewer," replied the priest, "they would have been more
esteemed: it is necessary that this book should be weeded and cleared of
some low things interspersed amongst its sublimities: let it be
preserved, both because the author is my friend, and out of respect to
other more heroic and exalted productions of his pen."

"This," pursued the barber, "is 'El Cancionero' of Lopez Maldonado."

"The author of that book," replied the priest, "is also a great friend
of mine: his verses, when sung by himself, excite much admiration;
indeed such is the sweetness of his voice in singing them, that they are
perfectly enchanting. He is a little too prolix in his eclogues; but
there can never be too much of what is really good: let it be preserved
with the select. But what book is that next to it?"

"The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes," said the barber.

"That Cervantes has been an intimate friend of mine these many years,
and I know that he is more versed in misfortunes than in poetry. There
is a good vein of invention in his book, which proposes something,
though nothing is concluded. We must wait for the second part, which he
has promised: perhaps, on his amendment, he may obtain that entire
pardon which is now denied him; in the mean time, neighbor, keep him a
recluse in your chamber."

"With all my heart," answered the barber. "Now, here come three
together: the 'Araucana' of Don Alonzo de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of
Juan Rufo, a magistrate of Cordova, and the 'Monserrato' of Christoval
de Virves, a poet of Valencia."

"These three books," said the priest, "are the best that are written in
heroic verse in the Castilian tongue, and may stand in competition with
the most renowned works of Italy. Let them be preserved as the best
productions of the Spanish Muse."

The priest grew tired of looking over so many books, and therefore,
without examination, proposed that all the rest should be burnt; but
the barber, having already opened one called the "Tears of Angelica," "I
should have shed tears myself," said the priest, on hearing the name,
"had I ordered that book to be burnt; for its author was one of the most
celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but of the whole world: his
translations from Ovid are admirable."

The same night the housekeeper set fire to and burnt all the books that
were in the yard and in the house. Some must have perished that deserved
to be treasured up in perpetual archives, but their destiny or the
indolence of the scrutineer forbade it; and in them was fulfilled the
saying, that--

  "The just sometimes suffer for the unjust."

In the mean time Don Quixote tampered with a laborer, a neighbor of his,
and an honest man (if such an epithet can be given to one that is poor),
but shallow brained; in short, he said so much, used so many arguments,
and made so many promises, that the poor fellow resolved to sally out
with him and serve him in the capacity of a squire. Among other things,
Don Quixote told him that he ought to be very glad to accompany him, for
such an adventure might some time or the other occur, that by one stroke
an island might be won, where he might leave him governor. With this and
other promises, Sancho Panza (for that was the laborer's name) left his
wife and children and engaged himself as squire to his neighbor.

Sancho Panza proceeded upon his ass, like a patriarch, with his wallet
and leathern bottle, and with a vehement desire to find himself
governor of the island, which his master had promised him. Don Quixote
happened to take the same route as on his first expedition, over the
plain of Montiel, which he passed with less inconvenience than before,
for it was early in the morning, and the rays of the sun, darting on
them horizontally, did not annoy them. Sancho Panza now said to his
master: "I beseech your worship, good sir knight-errant, not to forget
your promise concerning that same island; for I shall know how to govern
it, be it ever so large."

To which Don Quixote answered: "Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza,
that it was a custom much in use among the knights-errant of old to make
their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered, and I
am determined that so laudable a custom, shall not be lost through my
neglect; on the contrary, I resolve to outdo them in it: for they
sometimes, and perhaps most times, waited till their squires were grown
old; and when they were worn out in their service, and had endured many
bad days and worse nights, they conferred on them some title, such as
count, or at least marquis, of some valley or province of more or less
account; but if you live, and I live, before six days have passed I may
probably win such a kingdom as may have others depending on it, just fit
for thee to be crowned king of one of them. And do not think this any
extraordinary matter, for things fall out to knights by such unforeseen
and unexpected ways, that I may easily give thee more than I promise."

"So then," answered Sancho Panza, "if I were a king by some of those
miracles your worship mentions, Joan Gutierrez, my duck, would come to
be a queen, and my children infantas!"

"Who doubts it?" answered Don Quixote.

"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "for I am verily persuaded that, if
God were to rain down kingdoms upon the earth, none of them would sit
well upon the head of Mary Gutierrez; for you must know, sir, she is not
worth two farthings for a queen. The title of countess would sit better
upon her, with the help of Heaven and good friends."

"Recommend her to God, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "and he will do
what is best for her, but do thou have a care not to debase thy mind so
low as to content thyself with being less than a viceroy."

"Heaven grant us good success, and that we may speedily get this island
which costs me so dear. No matter then how soon I die."

"I have already told thee, Sancho, to give thyself no concern upon that
account; for, if an island cannot be had, there is the kingdom of
Denmark or that of Sobradisa, which will fit thee like a ring to the
finger. Besides, as they are upon _terra firma_, thou shouldst prefer
them. But let us leave this to its own time, and see if thou hast
anything for us to eat in thy wallet. We will then go in quest of some
castle, where we may lodge this night and make the balsam that I told
thee of, for I declare that my ear pains me exceedingly."

"I have here an onion and a piece of cheese, and I know not how many
crusts of bread," said Sancho, "but they are not eatables fit for so
valiant a knight as your worship."

"How little dost thou understand of this matter!" answered Don Quixote.
"I tell thee, Sancho, that it is honorable in knights-errant not to eat
once in a month; and, if they do taste food, it must be what first
offers: and this thou wouldst have known hadst thou read as many
histories as I have done; for, though I have perused many, I never yet
found in them any account of knights-errant taking food, unless it were
by chance and at certain sumptuous banquets prepared expressly for them.
The rest of their days they lived, as it were, upon smelling. And though
it is to be presumed they could not subsist without eating and
satisfying all other wants,--as, in fact, they were men,--yet, since
they passed most part of their lives in wandering through forests and
deserts, and without a cook, their usual diet must have consisted of
rustic viands, such as those which thou hast now offered me. Therefore,
friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which gives me pleasure, nor
endeavor to make a new world, or to throw knight-errantry off its
hinges."

"Pardon me, sir," said Sancho; "for, as I can neither read nor write, as
I told you before, I am entirely unacquainted with the rules of the
knightly profession; but henceforward I will furnish my wallet with all
sorts of dried fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and for
myself, who am none, I will supply it with poultry and other things of
more substance."

  There cannot be too much of a good thing.

  What is lost to-day may be won to-morrow.

  A saint may sometimes suffer for a sinner.

  Many go out for wool and return shorn.

  Matters of war are most subject to continual change.

  Every man that is aggrieved is allowed to defend himself by
  all laws human and divine.

  Truth is the mother of history, the rival of time, the
  depository of great actions, witness of the past, example
  and adviser of the present, and oracle of future ages.

  Love, like knight-errantry, puts all things on a level.

  He that humbleth himself God will exalt.[3]

After Don Quixote had satisfied his hunger, he took up a handful of
acorns, and, looking on them attentively, gave utterance to expressions
like these:--

"Happy times and happy ages were those which the ancients termed the
Golden Age! Not because gold, so prized in this our Iron age, was to be
obtained, in that fortunate period, without toil; but because they who
then lived were ignorant of those two words, Mine and Thine. In that
blessed age all things were in common; to provide their ordinary
sustenance no other labor was necessary than to raise their hands and
take it from the sturdy oaks, which stood liberally inviting them to
taste their sweet and relishing fruit. The limpid fountains and running
streams offered them, in magnificent abundance, their delicious and
transparent waters. In the clefts of rocks, and in hollow trees, the
industrious and provident bees formed their commonwealths, offering to
every hand, without interest, the fertile produce of their most
delicious toil. The stately cork-trees, impelled by their own courtesy
alone, divested themselves of their light and expanded bark, with which
men began to cover their houses, supported by rough poles, only as a
defence against the inclemency of the heavens. All then was peace, all
amity, all concord. The heavy colter of the crooked plough had not yet
dared to force open and search into the tender bowels of our first
mother, who, unconstrained, offered from every part of her fertile and
spacious bosom whatever might feed, sustain, and delight those, her
children, by whom she was then possessed."


ANTONIO.

  Yes, lovely nymph, thou art my prize;
    I boast the conquest of thy heart,
  Though nor the tongue, nor speaking eyes,
    Have yet revealed the latent smart.

  Thy wit and sense assure my fate,
    In them my love's success I see;
  Nor can he be unfortunate
    Who dares avow his flame for thee.

  Yet sometimes hast thou frowned, alas!
    And given my hopes a cruel shock;
  Then did thy soul seem formed of brass,
    Thy snowy bosom of the rock.

  But in the midst of thy disdain,
    Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays,
  Hope from behind to ease my pain,
    The border of her robe displays.

  Ah, lovely maid! in equal scale
    Weigh well thy shepherd's truth and love,
  Which ne'er but with his breath can fail,
    Which neither frowns nor smiles can move.

  If love, as shepherds wont to say,
    Be gentleness and courtesy,
  So courteous is Olalia,
    My passion will rewarded be.

  And if obsequious duty paid,
    The grateful heart can never move,
  Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade
    A due return and claim thy love.

  For, to seem pleasing in thy sight,
    I dress myself with studious care,
  And, in my best apparel dight,
    My Sunday clothes on Monday wear.

  And shepherds say I'm not to blame,
    For cleanly dress and spruce attire
  Preserve alive love's wanton flame
    And gently fan the dying fire.

  To please my fair, in mazy ring
    I join the dance, and sportive play;
  And oft beneath thy window sing,
    When first the cock proclaims the day.

  With rapture on each charm I dwell,
    And daily spread thy beauty's fame;
  And still my tongue thy praise shall tell,
    Though envy swell, or malice blame.

  Teresa of the Berrocal,
    When once I praised you, said in spite,
  Your mistress you an angel call,
    But a mere ape is your delight.

  Thanks to the bugle's artful glare,
    And all the graces counterfeit;
  Thanks to the false and curléd hair,
    Which wary Love himself might cheat.

  I swore 'twas false, and said she lied;
    At that her anger fiercely rose;
  I boxed the clown that took her side,
    And how I boxed my fairest knows.

  I court thee not, Olalia,
    To gratify a loose desire;
  My love is chaste, without alloy
    Of wanton wish or lustful fire.

  The church hath silken cords, that tie
    Consenting hearts in mutual bands:
  If thou, my fair, its yoke will try,
    Thy swain its ready captive stands.

  If not, by all the saints I swear
    On these bleak mountains still to dwell,
  Nor ever quit my toilsome care,
    But for the cloister and the cell.

  I think I see her now, with that goodly presence, looking as
  if she had the sun on one side of her and the moon on the
  other; and above all, she was a notable housewife, and a
  friend to the poor; for which I believe her soul is at this
  very moment in heaven.

  A clergyman must be over and above good, who makes all his
  parishioners speak well of him.

  Parents ought not to settle their children against their
  will.

  Though she does not fly or shun the company and conversation
  of the shepherds, but treats them in a courteous and
  friendly manner, yet, when any one of them ventures to
  discover his intention, though it be as just and holy as
  that of marriage, she casts him from her as out of a
  stone-bow. And by this sort of behavior she does more
  mischief in this country than if she carried the plague
  about with her; for her affability and beauty win the hearts
  of those who converse with her, and incline them to serve
  and love her; but her disdain and frank dealing drive them
  to despair; and so they know not what to say to her, and can
  only exclaim against her, calling her cruel and ungrateful,
  with such other titles as plainly denote her character; and,
  were you to abide here, sir, awhile, you would hear these
  mountains and valleys resound with the complaints of those
  rejected wretches that yet follow her. There is a place not
  far hence, where about two dozen of tall beeches grow, and
  not one of them is without the name of Marcela written and
  engraved on its smooth bark; over some of them is carved a
  crown, as if the lover would more clearly observe that
  Marcela deserves and wears the crown of all human beauty.

  Revels, banquets, and repose, were invented for effeminate
  courtiers; but toil, disquietude, and arms alone were
  designed for those whom the world calls knights-errant.

    For never sure was any knight
      So served by damsel, or by dame,
    As Lancelot, that man of might,
      When he at first from Britain came.

  The soldier who executes his captain's command is no less
  valuable than the captain who gave the order.

"I am of the same opinion," replied the traveller; "but one thing, among
many others which appear to me to be censurable in knights-errant, is
that, when they are prepared to engage in some great and perilous
adventure to the manifest hazard of their lives, at the moment of attack
they never think of commending themselves to God, as every Christian is
bound to do at such a crisis, but rather commend themselves to their
mistresses, and that with as much fervor and devotion as if they were
really their God; a thing which to me savors of paganism."

"Signor," answered Don Quixote, "this can by no means be otherwise; and
the knight-errant who should act in any other manner would digress much
from his duty; for it is a received maxim and custom in chivalry, that
the knight-errant, who, on the point of engaging in some great feat of
arms, has his lady before him, must turn his eyes fondly and amorously
towards her, as if imploring her favor and protection in the hazardous
enterprise that awaits him; and, even if nobody hear him, he must
pronounce some words between his teeth, by which he commends himself to
her with his whole heart; and of this we have innumerable examples in
history. Nor is it thence to be inferred that they neglect commending
themselves to God; for there is time and opportunity enough to do it in
the course of the action."

"Notwithstanding all that," replied the traveller, "better had it been
if the words he spent in commending himself to his lady, in the midst of
the career, had been employed as the duties of a Christian require;
particularly as I imagine that all knights-errant have not ladies to
commend themselves to, because they are not all in love."

"That cannot be," answered Don Quixote: "I say there cannot be a
knight-errant without a mistress; for it is as essential and as natural
for them to be enamored as for the sky to have stars; and most
certainly, no history exists in which a knight-errant is to be found
without an amour; for, from the very circumstance of his being without,
he would not be acknowledged as a legitimate knight, but a bastard who
had entered the fortress of chivalry, not by the gate, but over the
pales, like a thief and robber."

"Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I am not mistaken, I remember
having read that Don Galaor, brother to the valorous Amadis de Gaul,
never had a particular mistress, to whom he might commend himself;
notwithstanding which, he was no less esteemed, and was a very valiant
and famous knight."

To which our Don Quixote answered: "Signor, one swallow does not make a
summer." [4]

"If it is essential that every knight-errant be a lover," said the
traveller, "it may well be presumed that you are yourself one, being of
the profession; and, if you do not pique yourself upon the same secrecy
as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in the name of all this good
company and in my own, to tell us the name, country, quality, and beauty
of your mistress, who cannot but account herself happy that all the
world should know that she is loved and served by so worthy a knight."

Here Don Quixote breathed a deep sigh, and said: "I cannot positively
affirm whether that sweet enemy of mine is pleased or not that the
world should know I am her servant. I can only say, in answer to what
you so very courteously inquire of me, that her name is Dulcinea; her
country Toboso, a town of la Mancha: her quality at least that of a
princess, since she is my queen and sovereign lady; her beauty more than
human, since in her all the impossible and chimerical attributes of
beauty which the poets ascribe to their mistresses are realized; for her
hair is gold, her forehead the Elysian Fields, her eyebrows rainbows,
her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her
neck, alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her whiteness snow,
and her whole person without parallel. She is of those of Toboso de la
Mancha; a lineage which, though modern, is yet such as may give a noble
beginning to the most illustrious families of future ages; and in this
let no one contradict me, unless it be on the conditions that Zerbino
fixed under the arms of Orlando, where it said:--

 'That knight alone these arms shall move,
  Who dares Orlando's prowess prove.'"


THE STORY OF CHRYSOSTOM.

"Comrades," said he, "do you know what is passing in the village?"

"How should we know?" answered one of them.

"Know, then," continued the youth, "that the famous shepherd and
scholar, Chrysostom, died this morning; and it is rumored that it was
for love of that saucy girl Marcela, daughter of William the rich; she
who rambles about these woods and fields in the dress of a
shepherdess."

"For Marcela, say you?" quoth one.

"For her, I say," answered the goatherd; "and the best of it is, he has
ordered in his will that they should bury him in the fields, like a
Moor, at the foot of the rock, by the cork-tree fountain, which,
according to report, and as they say, he himself declared was the very
place where he first saw her. He ordered also other tilings so
extravagant that the clergy say they must not be performed; nor is it
fit that they should, for they seem to be heathenish. But his great
friend Ambrosio, the student, who accompanied him, dressed also like a
shepherd, declares that the whole of what Chrysostom enjoined shall be
executed: and upon this the village is all in an uproar: but by what I
can learn, they will at last do what Ambrosio and all his friends
require; and to-morrow they come to inter him, with great solemnity, in
the place I mentioned; and, in my opinion, it will be a sight well worth
seeing; at least, I shall not fail to go, although I were certain of not
returning to-morrow to the village."

"We will do the same," answered the goatherds; "and let us cast lots who
shall stay behind to look after the goats."

"You say well, Pedro," quoth another; "but it will be needless to make
use of this expedient, for I will remain for you all: and do not
attribute this to self-denial or want of curiosity in me, but to the
thorn which stuck into my foot the other day, and hinders me from
walking."

"We thank you, nevertheless," answered Pedro.

Don Quixote requested Pedro to give him some account of the deceased man
and the shepherdess. To which Pedro answered, "that all he knew was,
that the deceased was a wealthy gentleman, and inhabitant of a village
situate among these mountains, who had studied many years at Salamanca;
at the end of which time he returned home, with the character of a very
learned and well read person; particularly, it was said, he understood
the science of the stars, and what the sun and moon are doing in the
sky; for he told us punctually the clipse of the sun and moon."

"Friend," quoth Don Quixote, "the obscuration of those two luminaries is
called an _eclipse_, and not a _clipse_."

But Pedro, not regarding niceties, went on with his story, saying, "He
also foretold when the year would be plentiful or starel."

"_Sterile_, you would say, friend," quoth Don Quixote.

"_Sterile_, or _starel_," answered Pedro, "comes all to the same thing.
And, as I was saying, his father and friends, who gave credit to his
words, became very rich thereby; for they followed his advice in
everything. This year he would say, 'Sow barley, and not wheat; in this
you may sow vetches, and not barley; the next year there will be plenty
of oil; the three following there will not be a drop.'"

"This science they call astrology," said Don Quixote.

"I know not how it is called," replied Pedro, "but I know that he knew
all this, and more too. In short, not many months after he came from
Salamanca, on a certain day he appeared dressed like a shepherd, with
his crook and sheepskin jacket, having thrown aside his scholar's gown;
and with an intimate friend of his, called Ambrosio, who had been his
fellow-student, and who now put on likewise the apparel of a shepherd. I
forgot to tell you how the deceased Chrysostom was a great man at making
verses; insomuch that he made the carols for Christmas-eve and the
religious plays for Corpus Christi, which the boys of the village
represented; and everybody said they were most excellent. When the
people of the village saw the two scholars so suddenly habited like
shepherds, they were amazed, and could not get at the cause that induced
them to make that strange alteration in their dress. About this time the
father of Chrysostom died, and he inherited a large estate, in lands and
goods, flocks, herds, and money, of all which the youth remained
absolute master; and, indeed, he deserved it all, for he was a very good
companion, a charitable man, and a friend to those that were good, and
had a face like any blessing. Afterwards it came to be known that he
changed his habit for no other purpose but that he might wander about
these desert places after that shepherdess Marcela, with whom, as our
lad told you, he was in love.

"As all that I have related is certain truth, I can more readily believe
what our companion told us concerning the cause of Chrysostom's death;
and therefore I advise you, sir, not to fail being to-morrow at his
funeral, which will be very well worth seeing; for Chrysostom had a
great many friends, and it is not half a league hence to the place of
interment appointed by himself."

"I will certainly be there," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you for the
pleasure you have given me by the recital of so entertaining a story."

Morning scarcely had dawned through the balconies of the east, when five
of the six goatherds got up and went to awake Don Quixote, whom they
asked whether he continued in his resolution of going to see the famous
interment of Chrysostom, for, if so, they would bear him company. Don
Quixote, who desired nothing more, arose, and ordered Sancho to saddle
and pannel immediately, which he did with great expedition; and with the
same dispatch they all set out on their journey.

They had not gone a quarter of a league, when upon crossing a pathway,
they saw six shepherds advancing towards them, clad in jackets of black
sheepskin, with garlands of cypress and bitter rosemary on their heads;
each of them having in his hand a thick holly club. There came also with
them two gentlemen on horseback, well equipped for travelling, who were
attended by three lackeys on foot. When the two parties met they
courteously saluted each other, and finding upon inquiry that all were
proceeding to the place of burial, they continued their journey
together.

Proceeding on, they discerned through a cleft between two high mountains
about twenty shepherds coming down, all clad in jerkins of black wool,
and crowned with garlands, some of which were of yew, and some of
cypress. Six of them carried a bier covered with various flowers and
boughs. One of the goatherds said: "Those who come hither are bearing
the corpse of Chrysostom, and at the foot of yonder mountain is the
place where he desired to be interred." Four of them, with sharp
pickaxes, were making the grave by the side of a sharp rock. Upon the
bier lay a dead body, strewed with flowers, in the dress of a shepherd,
apparently about thirty years of age; and though dead, it was evident
that his countenance had been beautiful and his figure elegant. Several
books and a great number of papers, some open and some folded, lay round
him on the bier. All that were present, spectators as well as those who
were opening the grave, kept a marvellous silence, until one said to
another: "Observe carefully, Ambrosio, whether this be the place which
Chrysostom mentioned since you wish to be so exact in executing his
will."

"It is here," answered Ambrosio; "for in this very place my unhappy
friend often told me of his woe. Here it was, he told me, that he first
beheld that mortal enemy of the human race; here it was that he declared
to her his no less honorable than ardent passion; here it was that
Marcela finally undeceived and treated him with such disdain that she
put an end to the tragedy of his miserable life; and here, in memory of
so many misfortunes, he desired to be deposited in the bowels of eternal
oblivion."

Then, addressing himself to Don Quixote and the travellers, he thus
continued: "This body, sirs, which you are regarding with compassionate
eyes, was the receptacle of a soul upon which Heaven had bestowed an
infinite portion of its treasures; this is the body of Chrysostom, who
was a man of rare genius, matchless courtesy, and unbounded kindness; he
was a phoenix in friendship, magnificent without ostentation, grave
without arrogance, cheerful without meanness; in short, the first in all
that was good, and second to none in all that was unfortunate. He loved,
and was abhorred; he adored, and was scorned; he courted a savage; he
solicited a statue; he pursued the wind; he called aloud to the desert;
he was the slave of ingratitude, whose recompense was to leave him, in
the middle of his career of life, a prey to death, inflicted by a
certain shepherdess, whom he endeavored to render immortal in the
memories of men; as these papers you are looking at would sufficiently
demonstrate, had he not ordered me to commit them to the flames at the
same time that his body was deposited in the earth."

"You would then be more rigorous and cruel to them," said Vivaldo, "than
their master himself.

"It is neither just nor wise to fulfil the will of him who commands what
is utterly unreasonable.

"Augustus Cæsar deemed it wrong to consent to the execution of what the
divine Mantuan commanded in his will; therefore, Signor Ambrosio,
although you commit your friend's body to the earth, do not commit his
writings also to oblivion; and if he has ordained like a man aggrieved,
do not you fulfil like one without discretion, but rather preserve those
papers, in order that the cruelty of Marcela may be still remembered,
and serve for an example to those who shall live in times to come, that
they may avoid falling down the like precipices; for I am acquainted, as
well as my companions here, with the story of this your enamored and
despairing friend; we know also your friendship, and the occasion of
his death, and what he ordered on his deathbed; from which lamentable
history we may conclude how great has been the cruelty of Marcela, the
love of Chrysostom, and the sincerity of your friendship; and also learn
the end of those who run headlong in the path that delirious passion
presents to their view. Last night we heard of Chrysostom's death, and
that he was to be interred in this place; led, therefore, by curiosity
and compassion, we turned out of our way, and determined to behold with
our eyes what had interested us so much in the recital; and, in return
for our pity, and our desire to give aid, had it been possible, we
beseech you, oh wise Ambrosio--at least I request it on my own
behalf--that you will not burn the papers, but allow me to take some of
them."

Then, without waiting for the shepherd's reply, he stretched out his
hand and took some of those that were nearest to him: upon which
Ambrosio said: "Out of civility, signor, I will consent to your keeping
those you have taken; but if you expect that I shall forbear burning
those that remain, you are deceived."

Vivaldo, desirous of seeing what the papers contained, immediately
opened one of them, and found that it was entitled, "The Song of
Despair." Ambrosio, hearing it, said: "This is the last thing which the
unhappy man wrote; and that all present may conceive, signor, to what a
state of misery he was reduced, read it aloud; for you will have time
enough while they are digging the grave."

"That I will do with all my heart," said Vivaldo; and, as all the
bystanders had the same desire, they assembled around him, and he read
in an audible voice as follows:--

CHRYSOSTOM'S SONG.

  I.

  Since, cruel maid, you force me to proclaim
  From clime to clime, the triumph of your scorn,
  Let hell itself inspire my tortured breast
  With mournful numbers, and untune my voice;
  Whilst the sad pieces of my broken heart
  Mix with the doleful accents of my tongue,
  At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits,
  Hear, then, and listen with attentive ear--
  Not to harmonious sounds, but echoing groans,
  Fetched from the bottom of my laboring breast,
  To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart.

  II.

  The lion's roar, the howl of midnight wolves,
  The scaly serpent's hiss, the raven's croak,
  The burst of fighting winds that vex the main,
  The widowed owl and turtle's plaintive moan,
  With all the din of hell's infernal crew,
  From my grieved soul forth issue in one sound--
  Leaving my senses all confused and lost.
  For ah! no common language can express
  The cruel pains that torture my sad heart.

  III.

  Yet let not Echo bear the mournful sounds
  To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands,
  Or Betis, crowned with olives, pours his flood,
  But here, 'midst rocks and precipices deep,
  Or to obscure and silent vales removed,
  On shores by human footsteps never trod,
  Where the gay sun ne'er lifts his radiant orb,
  Or with the envenomed face of savage beasts
  That range the howling wilderness for food,
  Will I proclaim the story of my woes--
  Poor privilege of grief!--while echoes hoarse
  Catch the sad tale, and spread it round the world.

  IV.

  Disdain gives death; suspicions, true or false,
  O'erturn the impatient mind: with surer stroke
  Fell jealousy destroys; the pangs of absence
  No lover can support; nor firmest hope
  Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect;
  Yet I, strange fate! though jealous, though disdained,
  Absent, and sure of cold neglect, still live.
  And amidst the various torments I endure,
  No ray of hope e'er darted on my soul,
  Nor would I hope; rather in deep despair
  Will I sit down, and, brooding o'er my griefs,
  Vow everlasting absence from her sight.

  V.

  Can hope and fear at once the soul possess,
  Or hope subsist with surer cause of fear?
  Shall I, to shut out frightful jealousy,
  Close my sad eyes, when every pang I feel
  Presents the hideous phantom to my view?
  What wretch so credulous but must embrace
  Distrust with open arms, when he beholds
  Disdain avowed, suspicions realized,
  And truth itself converted to a lie?
  Oh, cruel tyrant of the realm of love,
  Fierce Jealousy, arm with a sword this hand,
  Or thou, Disdain, a twisted cord bestow!

  VI.

  Let me not blame my fate; but, dying, think
  The man most blest who loves, the soul most free
  That love has most enthralled. Still to my thoughts
  Let fancy paint the tyrant of my heart
  Beauteous in mind as face, and in myself
  Still let me find the source of her disdain,
  Content to suffer, since imperial Love
  By lover's woes maintains his sovereign state.
  With this persuasion, and the fatal noose,
  I hasten to the doom her scorn demands,
  And, dying, offer up my breathless corse,
  Uncrowned with garlands, to the whistling winds.

  VII.

  Oh thou, whose unrelenting rigor's force
  First drove me to despair, and now to death;
  When the sad tale of my untimely fall
  Shall reach thy ear, though it deserve a sigh,
  Veil not the heaven of those bright eyes in grief,
  Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the world
  At length my death has triumphed o'er thy scorn:
  But dress thy face in smiles, and celebrate
  With laughter and each circumstance of joy
  The festival of my disastrous end.
  Ah! need I bid thee smile? too well I know
  My death's thy utmost glory and thy pride.

  VIII.

  Come, all ye phantoms of the dark abyss:
  Bring, Tantalus, thy unextinguished thirst,
  And Sisyphus, thy still returning stone;
  Come, Tityus, with the vulture at thy heart;
  And thou, Ixion, bring thy giddy wheel;
  Nor let the toiling sisters stay behind.
  Pour your united griefs into this breast,
  And in low murmurs sing sad obsequies
  (If a despairing wretch such rites may claim)
  O'er my cold limbs, denied a winding sheet.
  And let the triple porter of the shades,
  The sister Furies, and chimeras dire,
  With notes of woe the mournful chorus join.
  Such funeral pomp alone befits the wretch
  By beauty sent untimely to the grave.

  IX.

  And thou, my song, sad child of my despair,
  Complain no more; but since thy wretched fate
  Improves her happier lot who gave thee birth,
  Be all thy sorrows buried in my tomb.

None of the shepherds departed until, the grave being made and the
papers burnt, the body of Chrysostom was interred, not without many
tears from the spectators. They closed the sepulchre with a large
fragment of a rock until a tombstone was finished, which Ambrosio said
it was his intention to provide, and to inscribe upon it the following
epitaph:--

CHRYSOSTOM'S EPITAPH.

  The body of a wretched swain,
  Killed by a cruel maid's disdain,
    In this cold bed neglected lies.

  He lived, fond, hapless youth! to prove
  Th' inhuman tyranny of love,
    Exerted in Marcela's eyes.

Then they strewed abundance of flowers and boughs
on the grave, and after expressions of condolence to his
friend Ambrosio, they took their leave of him.

  All beauty does not inspire love; some please the sight
  without captivating the affections. If all beauties were to
  enamour and captivate, the hearts of mankind would be in a
  continual state of perplexity and confusion--for beautiful
  objects being infinite, the sentiments they inspire should
  also be infinite.

  True love cannot be divided, and must be voluntary and
  unconstrained.

  The viper deserves no blame for its sting, although it be
  mortal--because it is the gift of Nature.

  Beauty in a modest woman is like fire or a sharp sword at a
  distance; neither doth the one burn nor the other wound
  those that come not too near them.

  Honor and virtue are ornaments of the soul, without which
  the body, though it be really beautiful, ought not to be
  thought so.

  Let him who is deceived complain.

  Let him to whom faith is broken despair.

  She who loves none can make none jealous, and sincerity
  ought not to pass for disdain.

  Much time is necessary to know people thoroughly.

  We are sure of nothing in this life.

  There is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor
  pain which death does not terminate.

  Fortune always leaves some door open in misfortune.

  Sometimes we look for one thing and find another.

  Self-praise depreciates.

  The cat to the rat--the rat to the rope--the rope to the
  gallows.

  Out of the frying-pan into the fire.

  One man is no more than another, only inasmuch as he does
  more than another.

  The lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.

  A mouth without teeth is like a mill without a stone.

  The dead to the bier, and the living to good cheer.

  One effect of fear is to disturb the senses, and make things
  not to appear what they really are.


ADVENTURE OF THE DEAD BODY.

They saw, advancing towards them, on the same road, a great number of
lights, resembling so many moving stars. Sancho stood aghast at the
sight of them, nor was Don Quixote unmoved. The one checked his ass and
the other his horse, and both stood looking before them with eager
attention. They perceived that the lights were advancing towards them,
and that as they approached nearer they appeared larger. Sancho trembled
like quicksilver at the sight, and Don Quixote's hair bristled upon his
head; but, somewhat recovering himself, he exclaimed: "Sancho, this must
be a most perilous adventure, wherein it will be necessary for me to
exert my whole might and valor."

"Woe is me!" answered Sancho; "should this prove to be an adventure of
goblins, as to me it seems to be, where shall I find ribs to endure?"

"Whatsoever phantoms they may be," said Don Quixote, "I will not suffer
them to touch a thread of thy garment: for if they sported with thee
before, it was because I could not get over the wall; but we are now
upon even ground, where I can brandish my sword at pleasure."

"But, if they should enchant and benumb you, as they did then," quoth
Sancho, "what matters it whether we are in the open field or not?"

"Notwithstanding that," replied Don Quixote, "I beseech thee, Sancho, to
be of good courage; for experience shall give thee sufficient proof of
mine."

"I will, if it please God," answered Sancho; and, retiring a little on
one side of the road, and again endeavoring to discover what those
walking lights might be, they soon after perceived a great many persons
clothed in white.

This dreadful spectacle completely annihilated the courage of Sancho,
whose teeth began to chatter, as if seized with a quartan ague; and his
trembling and chattering increased as more of it appeared in view; for
now they discovered about twenty persons in white robes, all on
horseback, with lighted torches in their hands; behind them came a
litter covered with black, which was followed by six persons in deep
mourning; the mules on which they were mounted being covered likewise
with black down to their heels; for that they were mules, and not
horses, was evident by the slowness of their pace. Those robed in white
were muttering to themselves in a low and plaintive tone.

This strange vision, at such an hour, and in a place so uninhabited
might well strike terror into Sancho's heart, and even into that of his
master; and so it would have done had he been any other than Don
Quixote. As for Sancho, his whole stock of courage was now exhausted.
But it was otherwise with his master, whose lively imagination instantly
suggested to him that this must be truly a chivalrous adventure. He
conceived that the litter was a bier, whereon was carried some knight
sorely wounded, or slain, whose revenge was reserved for him alone; he,
therefore, without delay couched his spear, seated himself firm in his
saddle, and with grace and spirit advanced into the middle of the road
by which the procession must pass; and, when they were near, he raised
his voice and said: "Ho, knights, whoever ye are, halt, and give me an
account to whom ye belong; whence ye come, whither ye are going, and
what it is ye carry upon that bier; for in all appearance either ye have
done some injury to others, or others to you: and it is expedient and
necessary that I be informed of it, either to chastise ye for the evil
ye have done, or to revenge ye of wrongs sustained."

"We are in haste," answered one in the procession; "the inn is a great
way off, and we cannot stay to give so long an account as you require."
Then, spurring his mule, he passed forward.

Don Quixote, highly resenting this answer, laid hold of his bridle and
said: "Stand, and with more civility give me the account I demand;
otherwise I challenge ye all to battle."

The mule was timid, and started so much upon his touching the bridle,
that, rising on her hind legs, she threw her rider over the crupper to
the ground. A lacquey that came on foot, seeing the man in white fall,
began to revile Don Quixote, whose choler being now raised, he couched
his spear, and immediately attacking one of the mourners, laid him on
the ground grievously wounded; then turning about to the rest, it was
worth seeing with what agility he attacked and defeated them; and it
seemed as if wings at that instant had sprung on Rozinante--so lightly
and swiftly he moved! All the white-robed people, being timorous and
unarmed, soon quitted the skirmish and ran over the plain with their
lighted torches, looking like so many masqueraders on a carnival or
festival night. The mourners were so wrapped up and muffled in their
long robes that they could make no exertion; so that Don Quixote, with
entire safety, assailed them all, and, sorely against their will,
obliged them to quit the field; for they thought him no man, but the
devil from hell broke loose upon them to seize the dead body they were
conveying in the litter.

All this Sancho beheld with admiration at his master's intrepidity, and
said to himself: "This master of mine is certainly as valiant and
magnanimous as he pretends to be."

A burning torch lay upon the ground near the first whom the mule had
overthrown, by the light of which Don Quixote espied him, and going up
to him, placed the point of his spear to his throat, commanding him to
surrender, on pain of death. To which the fallen man answered: "I am
surrendered enough already, since I cannot stir, for one of my legs is
broken. I beseech you, sir, if you are a Christian gentleman, do not
kill me: you would commit a great sacrilege, for I am a licentiate and
have taken the lesser orders."

"Who the devil, then," said Don Quixote, "brought you hither, being an
ecclesiastic?"

"Who, sir?" replied the fallen man; "my evil fortune."

"A worse fate now threatens you," said Don Quixote, "unless you reply
satisfactorily to all my first questions."

"Your worship shall soon be satisfied," answered the licentiate; "and
therefore you must know, sir, that though I told you before I was a
licentiate, I am in fact only a bachelor of arts, and my name is Alonzo
Lopez. I am a native of Alcovendas, and came from the city of Baeza with
eleven more ecclesiastics, the same who fled with the torches. We were
attending the corpse in that litter to the city of Segovia. It is that
of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was deposited till now, that,
as I said before, we are carrying his bones to their place of burial in
Segovia, where he was born."

"And who killed him?" demanded Don Quixote.

"God," replied the bachelor, "by means of a pestilential fever."

"Then," said Don Quixote, "our Lord hath saved me the labor of revenging
his death, in case he had been slain by any other hand. But, since he
fell by the hand of Heaven, there is nothing expected from us but
patience and a silent shrug; for just the same must I have done had it
been His pleasure to pronounce the fatal sentence upon me. It is proper
that your reverence should know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don
Quixote by name, and that it is my office and profession to go over the
world righting wrongs and redressing grievances."

  He that seeketh danger perisheth therein.

  Fear hath many eyes.

  Evil to him that evil seeks.

  Everybody has not discretion to take things by the right
  handle.

  He loves thee well who makes thee weep.


THE GRAND ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET.

About this time it began to rain a little, and Sancho proposed entering
the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such an abhorrence of
them for the late jest, that he would by no means go in: turning,
therefore, to the right hand, they struck into another road, like that
they had travelled through the day before. Soon after, Don Quixote
discovered a man on horseback, who had on his head something which
glittered as if it had been of gold; and scarcely had he seen it when,
turning to Sancho, he said, "I am of opinion, Sancho, there is no
proverb but what is true, because they are all sentences drawn from
experience itself, the mother of all the sciences; especially that which
says, 'Where one door is shut another is opened.' I say this because, if
fortune last night shut the door against what we sought, deceiving us
with the fulling-mills, it now opens wide another, for a better and
more certain adventure; in which, if I am deceived, the fault will be
mine, without imputing it to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or to the
darkness of night. This I say because, if I mistake not, there comes one
towards us who carries on his head Mambrino's helmet, concerning which
thou mayest remember I swore the oath."

"Take care, sir, what you say, and more what you do," said Sancho; "for
I would not wish for other fulling-mills, to finish the milling and
mashing our senses."

"The devil take thee!" replied Don Quixote: "what has a helmet to do
with fulling-mills?"

"I know not," answered Sancho; "but in faith, if I might talk as much as
I used to do, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would
see you are mistaken in what you say."

"How can I be mistaken in what I say, scrupulous traitor?" said Don
Quixote. "Tell me, seest thou not yon knight coming towards us on a
dapple-gray steed, with a helmet of gold on his head?"

"What I see and perceive," answered Sancho, "is only a man on a gray ass
like mine, with something on his head that glitters."

"Why, that is Mambrino's helmet," said Don Quixote; "retire, and leave
me alone to deal with him, and thou shalt see how, in order to save
time, I shall conclude this adventure without speaking a word, and the
helmet I have so much desired remain my own."

"I shall take care to get out of the way," replied Sancho; "but Heaven
grant, I say again, it may not prove another fulling-mill adventure."

"I have already told thee, Sancho, not to mention those fulling-mills,
nor even think of them," said Don Quixote: "if thou dost--I say no more,
but I vow to mill thy soul for thee!" Sancho held his peace, fearing
lest his master should perform his vow, which had struck him all of a
heap.

Now the truth of the matter, concerning the helmet, the steed, and the
knight which Don Quixote saw, was this. There were two villages in that
neighborhood, one of them so small that it had neither shop nor barber,
but the other adjoining to it had both; therefore the barber of the
larger served also the less, wherein one customer now wanted to be let
blood and another to be shaved; to perform which, the barber was now on
his way, carrying with him his brass basin; and it so happened that
while upon the road it began to rain, and to save his hat, which was a
new one, he clapped the basin on his head, which being lately scoured
was seen glittering at the distance of half a league; and he rode on a
gray ass, as Sancho had affirmed. Thus Don Quixote took the barber for a
knight, his ass for a dapple-gray steed, and his basin for a golden
helmet; for whatever he saw was quickly adapted to his knightly
extravagances: and when the poor knight drew near, without staying to
reason the case with him, he advanced at Rozinante's best speed, and
couched his lance, intending to run him through and through; but, when
close upon him, without checking the fury of his career, he cried out,
"Defend thyself, caitiff! or instantly surrender what is justly my due."

The barber, so unexpectedly seeing this phantom advancing upon him, had
no other way to avoid the thrust of the lance than to slip down from the
ass; and no sooner had he touched the ground than, leaping up nimbler
than a roebuck, he scampered over the plain with such speed that the
wind could not overtake him. The basin he left on the ground; with which
Don Quixote was satisfied, observing that the pagan had acted
discreetly, and in imitation of the beaver, which, when closely pursued
by the hunters, tears off with his teeth that which it knows by instinct
to be the object of pursuit. He ordered Sancho to take up the helmet;
who, holding it in his hand, said, "Before Heaven, the basin is a
special one, and is well worth a piece of eight, if it is worth a
farthing."

He then gave it to his master, who immediately placed it upon his head,
turning it round in search of the visor; but not finding it he said,
"Doubtless the pagan for whom this famous helmet was originally forged
must have had a prodigious head--the worst of it is that one half is
wanting."

When Sancho heard the basin called a helmet, he could not forbear
laughing; which, however, he instantly checked on recollecting his
master's late choler.

"What dost thou laugh at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.

"I am laughing," answered he, "to think what a huge head the pagan had
who owned that helmet, which is for all the world just like a barber's
basin."

"Knowest thou, Sancho, what I conceive to be the case? This famous
piece, this enchanted helmet, by some strange accident must have fallen
into the possession of one who, ignorant of its true value as a helmet
and seeing it to be of the purest gold, hath inconsiderately melted down
the one-half for lucre's sake, and of the other half made this, which,
as thou sayest, doth indeed look like a barber's basin; but to me, who
know what it really is, its transformation is of no importance, for I
will have it so repaired in the first town where there is a smith, that
it shall not be surpassed nor even equalled by that which the god of
smiths himself made and forged for the god of battles. In the mean time
I will wear it as I best can, for something is better than nothing; and
it will be sufficient to defend me from stones."

  Be brief in thy discourse, for what is prolix cannot be
  pleasing.

  Never stand begging for that which you have the power to
  take.

  There are two kinds of lineages in the world. Some there are
  who derive their pedigree from princes and monarchs, whom
  time has gradually reduced until they have ended in a point,
  like a pyramid; others have had a low origin, and have risen
  by degrees, until they have become great lords. So that the
  difference is, that some have been what they now are not,
  and others are now what they were not before.

  A leap from a hedge is better than the prayer of a bishop.

  A snatch from behind a bush is better than the prayer of
  good men.

  Customs come not all together, neither were they all
  invented at once.

  Who sings in grief procures relief.

  Let every one turn himself round, and look at home, and he
  will find enough to do.

  To be grateful for benefits received is the duty of honest
  men--one of the sins that most offendeth God is ingratitude.

  Benefits conferred on base-minded people are like drops of
  water thrown into the sea.

  Retreating is not running away, nor is staying wisdom when
  the danger overbalances the hope; and it is the part of wise
  men to secure themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not to
  venture all upon one throw.

  The wicked are always ungrateful.

  Necessity urges desperate measures.

  SONNET.

  Know'st thou, O love, the pangs that I sustain,
    Or, cruel, dost thou view those pangs unmov'd?
    Or has some hidden cause its influence proved,
  By all this sad variety of pain?

  Love is a god, then surely he must know,
    And knowing, pity wretchedness like mine;
  From other hands proceeds the fatal blow--
    Is then the deed, unpitying Chloe, thine?

  Ah, no! a form so exquisitely fair
    A soul so merciless can ne'er enclose.
    From Heaven's high will my fate resistless flows,
  And I, submissive, must its vengeance bear.
    Nought but a miracle my life can save,
    And snatch its destined victim from the grave.

  The devil is subtle, and lays stumbling-blocks in our way,
  over which we fall without knowing how.

  In all misfortunes the greatest consolation is a
  sympathizing friend.

  Riches are but of little avail against the ills inflicted by
  the hand of Heaven.

  He that buys and denies, his own purse belies.

  Till you hedge in the sky, the starlings will fly.

  If a painter would be famous in his art, he must endeavor to
  copy after the originals of the most excellent masters; the
  same rule is also applicable to all the other arts and
  sciences which adorn the commonwealth; thus, whoever aspires
  to a reputation for prudence and patience, must imitate
  Ulysses, in whose person and toils Homer draws a lively
  picture of those qualities; so also Virgil, in the
  character of Æneas, delineates filial piety, courage, and
  martial skill, being representations of not what they really
  were, but of what they ought to be, in order to serve as
  models of virtue to succeeding generations.

  The absent feel and fear every ill.

"I have heard say," quoth Sancho, "'from hell there is no retention.'"

"I know not," said Don Quixote, "what retention means."

"Retention," answered Sancho, "means that he who is once in hell never
does, nor ever can, get out again. I must strip off all my armor, and
remain as naked as I was born, if I should determine upon imitating
Orlando, in my penance, instead of Amadis."

While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of a high
mountain, which stood separated from several others that surrounded it,
as if it had been hewn out from them. Near its base ran a gentle stream,
that watered a verdant and luxuriant vale, adorned with many
wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers of various hues. This was
the spot in which the knight of the sorrowful figure chose to perform
his penance; and, while contemplating the scene, he thus broke forth in
a loud voice:--

"This is the place, O ye heavens! which I select and appoint for
bewailing the misfortune in which ye have involved me. This is the spot
where my flowing tears shall increase the waters of this crystal stream,
and my sighs, continual and deep, shall incessantly move the foliage of
these lofty trees, in testimony and token of the pain my persecuted
heart endures. O ye rural deities, whoever ye be, that inhabit these
remote deserts, give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom
long absence and some pangs of jealousy have driven to bewail himself
among these rugged heights, and to complain of the cruelty of that
ungrateful fair, the utmost extent and ultimate perfection of all human
beauty! O ye wood-nymphs and dryads, who are accustomed to inhabit the
dark recesses of the mountain groves (so may the nimble and lascivious
satyrs, by whom ye are wooed in vain, never disturb your sweet repose),
assist me to lament my hard fate, or at least be not weary of hearing my
groans! O my Dulcinea del Toboso, light of my darkness, glory of my
pain, the north-star of my travels, and overruling planet of my fortune
(so may Heaven listen to all thy petitions), consider, I beseech thee,
to what a condition thy absence hath reduced me, and reward me as my
fidelity deserves! O ye solitary trees, who henceforth are to be the
companions of my retirement, wave gently your branches, to indicate that
my presence does not offend you! And, O thou my squire, agreeable
companion in my prosperous and adverse fortunes, carefully imprint on
thy memory what thou shalt see me here perform, that thou mayest recount
and recite it to her who is the sole cause of all!"

"There is no reason why you should threaten me," quoth Sancho, "for I am
not a man to rob or murder anybody. Let every man's fate kill him, or
God who made him. My master is doing a certain penance much to his
liking in the midst of yon mountains."

Don Quixote took out the pocket-book, and, stepping aside, began with
much composure to write the letter; and having finished, he called
Sancho and said he would read it to him that he might have it by heart,
lest he might perchance lose it by the way, for everything was to be
feared from his evil destiny. To which Sancho answered: "Write it, sir,
two or three times in the book, and give it me, and I will take good
care of it; but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a folly,
for mine is so bad that I often forget my own name. Your worship,
however, may read it to me. I shall be glad to hear it, for it must
needs be very much to the purpose."

"Listen, then," said Don Quixote, "this is what I have written ":--


DON QUIXOTE'S LETTER TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.

HIGH AND SOVEREIGN LADY:--He who is stabbed by the point of absence, and
pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets
thee with wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself. If thy
beauty despise me, if thy worth favor me not, and if thy disdain still
pursue me, although inured to suffering, I shall ill support an
affliction which is not only severe but lasting. My good squire Sancho
will tell thee, O ungrateful fair and most beloved foe, to what a state
I am reduced on thy account. If it be thy pleasure to relieve me, I am
thine; if not, do what seemeth good to thee,--for by my death I shall
at once appease thy cruelty and my own passion.

Until death thine,
THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL FIGURE.

  One should not talk of halters in the house of the hanged.


LINES DISCOVERED ON THE BARK OF A TREE, ADDRESSED TO DULCINEA DEL
TOBOSO.

  Ye lofty trees, with spreading arms,
    The pride and shelter of the plain;
  Ye humble shrubs and flowery charms,
    Which here in springing glory reign!
  If my complaints may pity move,
  Hear the sad story of my love!
    While with me here you pass your hours,
  Should you grow faded with my cares,
    I'll bribe you with refreshing showers;
  You shall be watered with my tears.
    Distant, though present in idea,
    I mourn my absent Dulcinea
                               Del Toboso.

  Love's truest slave, despairing, chose
    This lonely wild, this desert plain,
  This silent witness of the woes
    Which he, though guiltless, must sustain.
  Unknowing why these pains he bears,
  He groans, he raves, and he despairs.
    With lingering fires Love racks my soul:
  In vain I grieve, in vain lament;
    Like tortured fiends I weep, I howl,
  And burn, yet never can repent.
    Distant, though present in idea,
    I mourn my absent Dulcinea
                               Del Toboso.

  While I through Honor's thorny ways,
    In search of distant glory rove,
  Malignant fate my toil repays
    With endless woes and hopeless love.
  Thus I on barren rocks despair,
  And curse my stars, yet bless my fair.
    Love, armed with snakes, has left his dart,
  And now does like a fury rave;
    And scourge and sting on every part,
  And into madness lash his slave.
    Distant, though present in idea,
    I mourn my absent Dulcinea
                               Del Toboso.

  When the stars are adverse, what is human power?

  Who is there in the world that can boast of having fathomed
  and thoroughly penetrated the intricate and ever-changing
  nature of a woman?

  What causes all my grief and pain?
    Cruel disdain.
  What aggravates my misery?
    Accursed jealousy.
  How has my soul its patience lost?
    By tedious absence crossed.
  Alas! no balsam can be found
  To heal the grief of such a wound.
  When absence, jealousy, and scorn
  Have left me hopeless and forlorn.

  What in my breast this grief could move?
    Neglected love.
  What doth my fond desires withstand?
    Fate's cruel hand.
  And what confirms my misery?
    Heaven's fixed decree.
  Ah me! my boding fears portend,
  This strange disease my life will end:
  For die I must, when three such foes,
  Heaven, fate, and love, my bliss oppose.

  My peace of mind, what can restore?
    Death's welcome hour.
  What gains love's joys most readily?
    Fickle inconstancy.
  Its pains what medicine can assuage?
    Wild frenzy's rage.
  'Tis therefore little wisdom, sure,
  For such a grief to seek a cure,
  That knows no better remedy
  Than frenzy, death, inconstancy.

The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice, and the skill of the
singer, all conspired to impress the auditors with wonder and delight,
and they remained for some time motionless, in expectation of hearing
more; but, finding the silence continue, they resolved to see who it was
who had sung so agreeably, and were again detained by the same voice
regaling their ears with this sonnet:--

  Friendship, thou hast with nimble flight
  Exulting gained the empyreal height,
  In heaven to dwell, while here below
  Thy semblance reigns in mimic show;
  From thence to earth, at thy behest,
  Descends fair peace, celestial guest!
  Beneath whose veil of shining hue
  Deceit oft lurks, concealed from view.

  Leave, friendship! leave thy heavenly seat,
  Or strip thy livery off the cheat.
  If still he wears thy borrowed smiles,
  And still unwary truth beguiles,
  Soon must this dark terrestrial ball
  Into its first confusion fall.

  What is sudden death to a protracted life of anguish?

  "O heavens! have I then at last found a place which may
  afford a secret grave for this wretched body? Yes, if the
  silence of this rocky desert deceive me not, here I may die
  in peace. Ah, woe is me! Here at least I may freely pour
  forth my lamentations to Heaven, and shall be less wretched
  than among men, from whom I should in vain seek counsel,
  redress, or consolation."

  One evil produces another, and misfortunes never come
  singly.

  O memory, thou mortal enemy of my repose! wherefore now
  recall to me the incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of
  mine! Were it not better, thou cruel faculty! to represent
  to my imagination her conduct at that period--that moved by
  so flagrant an injury, I may strive if not to avenge it, at
  least to end this life of pain?

  For no grievance can harass or drive the afflicted to such
  extremity, while life remains, as to make them shut their
  ears against that counsel which is given with the most
  humane and benevolent intention.

  Music lulls the disordered thoughts, and elevates the
  dejected spirits.

  All women, let them be never so homely, are pleased to hear
  themselves celebrated for beauty.

  The eyes of love or of idleness are like those of a lynx.

  One mischance invites another, and the end of one misfortune
  is often the beginning of a worse.

  Among friends we ought not to stand upon trifles.

  No man can command the first emotions of his passions.

  Every new fault deserves a new penance.

  Where is the wonder one devil should be like another?

  Gifts are good after Easter.

  A sparrow in the hand is worth more than a bustard on the
  wing.

  He that will not when he may, when he would he shall have
  nay.

  Men may prove and use their friends, and not presume upon
  their friendship in things contrary to the decrees of
  Heaven.

  A man dishonored is worse than dead.

"I have heard it preached," quoth Sancho, "that God is to be loved with
this kind of love, for Himself alone, without our being moved to it by
hope of reward or fear of punishment; though, for my part, I am inclined
to love and serve Him for what He is able to do for me."

"The devil take thee for a bumpkin," said Don Quixote; "thou sayest ever
and anon such apt things that one would almost think thee a scholar."

"And yet, by my faith," quoth Sancho, "I cannot so much as read."

  Squires and knight-errants are subject to much hunger and
  ill-luck.

  A man on whom Heaven has bestowed a beautiful wife should be
  as cautious respecting the friends he introduces at home as
  to her female acquaintance abroad.

  If from equal parts we take equal parts, those that remain
  are equal.

  To attempt voluntarily that which must be productive of evil
  rather than good, is madness and folly. Difficult works are
  undertaken for the sake of Heaven, or of the world, or both:
  the first are such as are performed by the saints while they
  endeavor to live the life of angels in their human frames;
  such as are performed for love of the world are encountered
  by those who navigate the boundless ocean, traverse
  different countries and various climates to acquire what are
  called the goods of fortune. Those who assail hazardous
  enterprises for the sake of both God and man are brave
  soldiers, who no sooner perceive in the enemy's wall a
  breach made by a single cannon-ball, than, regardless of
  danger and full of zeal in the defence of their faith, their
  country, and their king, they rush where death in a thousand
  shapes awaits them. These are difficulties commonly
  attempted, and, though perilous, are glorious and
  profitable.


  TEARS OF ST. PETER.

  Shame, grief, remorse, in Peter's breast increase,
    Soon as the blushing morn his crime betrays;
  When most unseen, then most himself he sees,
    And with due horror all his soul surveys.
  For a great spirit needs no censuring eyes
    To wound his soul, when conscious of a fault;
  But, self-condemn'd, and e'en self-punished, lies,
    And dreads no witness like upbraiding Thought.


  Expect not, therefore, by concealment, to banish sorrow;
  for, even though you weep not openly, tears of blood will
  flow from your heart. So wept that simple doctor, who,
  according to the poet, would venture to make a trial of the
  cup which the more prudent Rinaldo wisely declined doing;
  and although this be a poetical fiction, there is a
  concealed moral in it worthy to be observed and followed.

  There is no jewel in the world so valuable as a chaste and
  virtuous woman. The honor of women consists in the good
  opinion of the world; and since that of your wife is
  eminently good, why would you have it questioned? Woman, my
  friend, is an imperfect creature; and, instead of laying
  stumbling-blocks in her way, we should clear the path before
  her, that she may readily attain that virtue which is
  essential in her. Naturalists inform us that the ermine is a
  little creature with extremely white fur, and that when the
  hunters are in pursuit of it, they spread with mire all the
  passes leading to its haunts, to which they then drive it,
  knowing that it will submit to be taken rather than defile
  itself. The virtuous and modest woman is an ermine, and her
  character whiter than snow; and in order to preserve it, a
  very different method must be taken from that which is used
  with the ermine.

  The reputation of a woman may also be compared to a mirror
  of crystal, shining and bright, but liable to be sullied by
  every breath that comes near it. The virtuous woman must be
  treated like a relic--adored but not handled; she should be
  guarded and prized, like a fine flower-garden, the beauty
  and fragrance of which the owner allows others to enjoy only
  at a distance, and through iron rails.

  The devil, when he would entrap a cautious person, assumes
  an angel form till he carries his point, when the cloven
  foot appears.

  He who builds on impossibilities should be denied the
  privilege of any other foundation.

  Hope is ever born with love.

  Castles should not be left without governors, nor armies
  without generals.

  The passion of love is to be conquered by flight alone; it
  is vain to contend with a power which, though human,
  requires more than human strength to subdue.


  SONNET.

  In the dead silence of the peaceful night,
    When others' cares are hushed in soft repose,
    The sad account of my neglected woes
  To conscious Heaven and Chloris I recite.
  And when the sun, with his returning light,
    Forth from the east his radiant journey goes,
    With accents such as sorrow only knows,
  My griefs to tell is all my poor delight.
  And when bright Phoebus from his starry throne
    Sends rays direct upon the parched soil,
  Still in the mournful tale I persevere;
    Returning night renews my sorrow's toil;
  And though from morn to night I weep and moan,
  Nor Heaven nor Chloris my complainings hear.


  Are we to take all that enamored poets sing for truth?


  SONNET.

    Believe me, nymph, I feel th' impending blow,
    And glory in the near approach of death;
    For when thou see'st my corse devoid of breath,
  My constancy and truth thou sure wilt know,
  Welcome to me Oblivion's shade obscure!
    Welcome the loss of fortune, life, and fame!
    But thy loved features, and thy honored name,
  Deep graven on my heart, shall still endure.
  And these, as sacred relics, will I keep
    Till that sad moment when to endless night
    My long-tormented soul shall take her flight
  Alas for him who on the darkened deep
    Floats idly, sport of the tempestuous tide,
    No port to shield him, and no star to guide!


  He who gives freely gives twice.

  That which is lightly gained is little valued.

  For love sometimes flies and sometimes walks--runs with one
  person, and goes leisurely with another: some he warms, and
  some he burns; some he wounds, and others he kills: in one
  and the same instant he forms and accomplishes his projects.
  He often in the morning lays siege to a fortress which in
  the evening surrenders to him--for no force is able to
  resist him.

  Heaven always favors the honest purpose.

  Rank is not essential in a wife.

  True nobility consists in virtue.

  It is no derogation to rank to elevate beauty adorned with
  virtue.

  Time will discover.


"Certainly, gentlemen, if we rightly consider it, those who make
knight-errantry their profession often meet with surprising and most
stupendous adventures. For what mortal in the world, at this time
entering within this castle, and seeing us sit together as we do, will
imagine and believe us to be the same persons which in reality we are?
Who is there that can judge that this lady by my side is the great queen
we all know her to be, and that I am that Knight of the Sorrowful Figure
so universally made known by fame? It is, then, no longer to be doubted
but that this exercise and profession surpasses all others that have
been invented by man, and is so much the more honorable as it is more
exposed to dangers. Let none presume to tell me that the pen is
preferable to the sword. This may be ascertained by regarding the end
and object each of them aims at; for that intention is to be most valued
which makes the noblest end its object. The scope and end of learning, I
mean human learning (in this place I speak not of divinity, whose aim is
to guide souls to Heaven, for no other can equal a design so infinite as
that), is to give a perfection to distribute justice, bestowing upon
every one his due, and to procure and cause good laws to be observed; an
end really generous, great, and worthy of high commendation, but yet not
equal to that which knight-errantry tends to, whose object and end is
peace, which is the greatest blessing man can wish for in this life.
And, therefore, the first good news that the world received was that
which the angels brought in the night--the beginning of our day--when
they sang in the air, 'Glory to God on high, peace on earth, and to men
good-will.' And the only manner of salutation taught by our great Master
to His friends and favorites was, that entering any house they should
say, 'Peace be to this house.' And at other times He said to them, 'My
peace I give to you,' 'My peace I leave to you,' 'Peace be among you.' A
jewel and legacy worthy of such a donor, a jewel so precious that
without it there can be no happiness either in earth or heaven. This
peace is the true end of war; for arms and war are one and the same
thing. Allowing, then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, and
that in this it excels the end of learning, let us now weigh the bodily
labors the scholar undergoes against those the warrior suffers, and then
see which are the greatest.

"These, then, I say, are the sufferings and hardships a scholar endures.
First, poverty (not that they are all poor, but to urge the worst that
may be in this case); and having said he endures poverty, methinks
nothing more need be urged to express his misery; for he that is poor
enjoys no happiness, but labors under this poverty in all its parts, at
one time in hunger, at another in cold, another in nakedness, and
sometimes in all of them together; yet his poverty is not so great, but
still he eats, though it be later than the usual hour, and of the scraps
of the rich; neither can the scholar miss of somebody's stove or
fireside to sit by; where, though he be not thoroughly heated, yet he
may gather warmth, and at last sleep away the night under a roof. I will
not touch upon other less material circumstances, as the want of linen,
and scarcity of shoes, thinness and baldness of their clothes, and their
surfeiting when good fortune throws a feast in their way; this is the
difficult and uncouth path they tread, often stumbling and falling, yet
rising again and pushing on, till they attain the preferment they aim
at; whither being arrived, we have seen many of them, who, having been
carried by a fortunate gale through all these quick-sands, from a chair
govern the world; their hunger being changed into satiety, their cold
into comfortable warmth, their nakedness into magnificence of apparel,
and the mats they used to lie upon, into stately beds of costly silks
and softest linen, a reward due to their virtue. But yet their
sufferings, being compared to those the soldier endures, appear much
inferior, as I shall in the next place make out."

Don Quixote, after a short pause, continued his discourse thus:--"Since,
in speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty and its several
branches, let us see whether the soldier be richer. We shall find that
poverty itself is not more poor: for he depends on his wretched pay,
which comes late, and sometimes never; or upon what he can pillage, at
the imminent risk of his life and conscience. Such often is his
nakedness that his slashed buff-doublet serves him both for finery and
shirt; and in the midst of winter, on the open plain, he has nothing to
warm him but the breath of his mouth, which, issuing from an empty
place, must needs be cold. But let us wait, and see whether night will
make amends for these inconveniences: if his bed be too narrow it is his
own fault, for he may measure out as many feet of earth as he pleases,
and roll himself thereon at pleasure without fear of rumpling the
sheets. Suppose the moment arrived of taking his degree--I mean,
suppose-the day of battle come: his doctoral cap may then be of lint, to
cover some gun-shot wound, which perhaps has gone through his temples,
or deprived him of an arm or leg.

"And even suppose that Heaven in its mercy should preserve him alive and
unhurt, he will probably remain as poor as ever; for he must be engaged
and victorious in many battles before he can expect high promotion; and
such good fortune happens only by a miracle: for you will allow,
gentlemen, that few are the number of those that have reaped the reward
of their services, compared with those who have perished in war. The
dead are countless; whereas those who survived to be rewarded may be
numbered with three figures. Not so with scholars, who by their salaries
(I will not say their perquisites) are generally handsomely provided
for. Thus the labors of the soldier are greater, although his reward is
less. It may be said in answer to this, that it is easier to reward two
thousand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers: for scholars are
rewarded by employments which must of course be given to men of their
profession; whereas the soldier can only be rewarded by the property of
the master whom, he serves; and this defence serves to strengthen my
argument.

"But, waiving this point, let us consider the comparative claims to
pre-eminence: for the partisans of each can bring powerful arguments in
support of their own cause. It is said in favor of letters that without
them arms could not subsist; for war must have its laws, and laws come
within the province of the learned. But it may be alleged in reply, that
arms are necessary to the maintenance of law; by arms the public roads
are protected, cities guarded, states defended, kingdoms preserved, and
the seas cleared of corsairs and pirates. In short, without arms there
would be no safety for cities, commonwealths or kingdoms. Besides, it is
just to estimate a pursuit in proportion to the cost of its attainment.
Now it is true that eminence in learning is purchased by time, watching,
hunger, nakedness, vertigo, indigestion, and many other inconveniences
already mentioned; but a man who rises gradually to be a good soldier
endures all these, and far more. What is the hunger and poverty which
menace the man of letters compared with the situation of the soldier,
who, besieged in some fortress, and placed as sentinel in some ravelin
or _cavalier_, perceives that the enemy is mining toward the place where
he stands, and yet he must on no account stir from his post or shun the
imminent danger that threatens him? All that he can do in such a case is
to give notice to his officer of what passes, that he may endeavor to
counteract it; in the meantime he must stand his ground, in momentary
expectation of being mounted to the clouds without wings, and then
dashed headlong to the earth. And if this be thought but a trifling
danger, let us see whether it be equalled or exceeded by the encounter
of two galleys, prow to prow, in the midst of the white sea, locked and
grappled together, so that there is no more room left for the soldier
than the two-foot plank at the break-head; and though he sees as many
threatening ministers of death before him as there are pieces of
artillery pointed at him from the opposite side, not the length of a
lance from his body; though he knows that the first slip of his foot
sends him to the bottom of the sea; yet, with an undaunted heart,
inspired by honor, he exposes himself as a mark to all their fire, and
endeavors by that narrow pass to force his way into the enemy's vessel!
And, what is most worthy of admiration, no sooner is one fallen, never,
to rise again in this world, than another takes his place; and if he
also fall into the sea, which lies in wait to devour him, another and
another succeeds without intermission! In all the extremities of war
there is no example of courage and intrepidity to exceed this. Happy
those ages which knew not the dreadful fury of artillery!--those
instruments of hell (where, I verily believe, the inventor is now
receiving the reward of his diabolical ingenuity), by means of which the
cowardly and the base can deprive the bravest soldier of life. While a
gallant spirit animated with heroic ardor is pressing to glory, comes a
chance ball, sent by one who perhaps fled in alarm at the flash of his
own accursed weapon, and in an instant cuts short the life of him who
deserved to live for ages! When I consider this, I could almost repent
having undertaken this profession of knight-errantry in so detestable an
age; for though no danger can daunt me, still it gives me some concern
to think that powder and lead may suddenly cut short my career of glory.
But Heaven's will be done! I have this satisfaction, that I shall
acquire the greater fame if I succeed, inasmuch as the perils by which I
am beset are greater than those to which the knights-errant of past ages
were exposed."


  The army is a school in which the miser becomes generous,
  and the generous prodigal.

  A covetous soldier is a monster which is rarely seen.

  Liberality may be carried too far in those who have children
  to inherit from them.

  How seldom promises made in slavery are remembered after a
  release from bondage.

  Good fortune seldom comes pure and single, unattended by
  some troublesome or unexpected circumstance.

  Though we love the treason we abhor the traitor.

  What transport in life can equal that which a man feels on
  the restoration of his liberty?

  "The church, the court, or the sea;" as if it more fully
  expressed the following advice,--He that would make his
  fortune, ought either to dedicate his time to the church, go
  to sea as a merchant, or attach himself to the court: for it
  is commonly observed, that "the king's crumb is worth the
  baron's batch."[5]


  SONNET UPON THE GOLETA.

  O happy souls, by death at length set free
  From the dark prison of mortality,
  By glorious deeds, whose memory never dies--
  From earth's dim spot exalted to the skies!
  What fury stood in every eye confessed!
  What generous ardor fired each manly breast,
  While slaughtered heaps distained the sandy shore,
  And the tinged ocean blushed with hostile gore!
  O'erpowered by numbers, gloriously ye fell:
  Death only could such matchless courage quell;
  Whilst dying thus ye triumphed o'er your foes--
  Its fame the world, its glory heaven, bestows!


  SONNET ON THE FORT.

  From 'midst these walls, whose ruins spread around,
  And scattered clods that heap the ensanguined ground,
  Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight,
  To better regions took their happy flight.
  Long with unconquered souls they bravely stood,
  And fearless shed their unavailing blood:
  Till, to superior force compelled to yield,
  Their lives they quitted in the well-fought field.
  This fatal soil has ever been the tomb
  Of slaughtered heroes, buried in its womb:
  Yet braver bodies did it ne'er sustain,
  Nor send more glorious soul the skies to gain.


  I.

  Tossed in a sea of doubts and fears,
    Love's hapless mariner, I sail,
  Where no inviting port appears,
    To screen me from the stormy gale.

  II.

  At distance viewed, a cheering star
    Conducts me through the swelling tide;
  A brighter luminary, far,
    Than Palinurus o'er descried.

  III.

  My soul, attracted by its blaze,
    Still follows where it points the way,
  And while attentively I gaze,
    Considers not how far I stray.

  IV.

  But female pride, reserved and shy,
    Like clouds that deepen on the day,
  Oft shroud it from my longing eye,
    When most I need the genial ray.

  V.

  O lovely star, so pure and bright!
    Whose splendor feeds my vital fire,
  The moment thou deny'st thy light,
    Thy lost adorer will expire!


  SONG.

  Unconquered hope, thou bane of fear,
    And last deserter of the brave,
  Thou soothing ease of mortal care,
    Thou traveller beyond the grave;
  Thou soul of patience, airy food,
  Bold warrant of a distant good,
    Reviving cordial, kind decoy;
  Though fortune frowns and friends depart,
    Though Silvia flies me, flattering joy,
  Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart.

  No slave, to lazy ease resigned,
    E'er triumphed over noble foes;
  The monarch fortune most is kind
    To him who bravely dares oppose.
  They say, Love rates his blessing high,
  But who would prize an easy joy?
    My scornful fair then I'll pursue,
  Though the coy beauty still denies;
    I grovel now on earth, 'tis true,
  But, raised by her, the humble slave may rise.


  Might overcomes.

  Him to whom God giveth may St. Peter bless.

  Diligence is the mother of success, and in many important
  causes experience hath shown that the assiduity of the
  solicitor hath brought a very doubtful suit to a very
  fortunate issue; but the truth of this maxim is nowhere more
  evinced than in war, where activity and despatch anticipate
  the designs of the enemy, and obtain the victory before he
  has time to put himself in a posture of defence.

  The common adage that delays are dangerous acts as spurs
  upon the resolution.

  There are more tricks in the town than are dreamt of.

  Virtue is always more persecuted by the wicked than beloved
  by the righteous.

  Virtue is so powerful that of herself she will, in spite of
  all the necromancy possessed by the first inventor,
  Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every severe trial, and
  shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the
  heavens.

  Fables should not be composed to outrage the understanding;
  but by making the wonderful appear possible, and creating in
  the mind a pleasing interest, they may both surprise and
  entertain; which cannot be effected where no regard is paid
  to probability. I have never yet found a regular,
  well-connected fable in any of our books of chivalry--they
  are all inconsistent and monstrous; the style is generally
  bad; and they abound with incredible exploits, lascivious
  amours, absurd sentiment, and miraculous adventures; in
  short, they should be banished every Christian country.

  Just are virtue's fears where envy domineers.

  Bounty will not stay where niggards bear the sway.

  Fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and those who were
  yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom to-day.

  Every one is the son of his own works.

  The mind receives pleasure from the beauty and consistency
  of what is presented to the imagination, not from that which
  is incongruous and unnatural.

  Fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles truth,
  and agreeable in proportion to the probability it bears and
  the doubtful credit which it inspires. Wherefore, all such
  fables ought to be suited to the understanding of those who
  read them, and written so as that, by softening
  impossibilities, smoothing what is rough, and keeping the
  mind in suspense, they may surprise, agreeably perplex, and
  entertain, creating equal admiration and delight; and these
  never can be excited by authors who forsake probability and
  imitation, in which the perfection of writing consists.

  Epics may be written in prose as well as verse.

  To assert that there never was an Amadis in the world, nor
  any other of the knights-adventurers of whom so many records
  remain, is to say that the sun does not enlighten, the frost
  produce cold, nor the earth yield sustenance.

  The approbation of the judicious few should far outweigh
  the censure of the ignorant.

  An author had better be applauded by the few that are wise,
  than laughed at by the many that are foolish.

  Our modern plays, not only those which are formed upon
  fiction, but likewise such as are founded on the truth of
  history, are all, or the greatest part, universally known to
  be monstrous productions, without either head or tail, and
  yet received with pleasure by the multitude, who approve and
  esteem them as excellent performances, though they are far
  from deserving that title; and if the authors who compose,
  and the actors who represent them, affirm that this and no
  other method is to be practised, because the multitude must
  be pleased; that those which bear the marks of contrivance,
  and produce a fable digested according to the rules of art,
  serve only for entertainment to four or five people of
  taste, who discern the beauties of the plan, which utterly
  escape the rest of the audience; and that it is better for
  them to gain a comfortable livelihood by the many, than
  starve upon reputation with the few; at this rate, said I,
  if I should finish my book, after having scorched every hair
  in my whiskers in poring over it, to preserve those rules
  and precepts already mentioned, I might fare at last like
  the sagacious botcher, who sewed for nothing and found his
  customers in thread.

  It is not a sufficient excuse to say that the object in
  permitting theatrical exhibitions being chiefly to provide
  innocent recreation for the people, it is unnecessary to
  limit and restrain the dramatic author within strict rules
  of composition; for I affirm that the same object is, beyond
  all comparison, more effectually attained by legitimate
  works. The spectator of a good drama is amused, admonished,
  and improved by what is diverting, affecting, and moral in
  the representation; he is cautioned against deceit,
  corrected by example, incensed against vice, stimulated to
  the love of virtue.

  Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirror of life,
  the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth; whereas those
  that are represented in this age are mirrors of absurdity,
  exemplars of folly, and pictures of lewdness; for sure,
  nothing can be more absurd in a dramatic performance, than
  to see the person, who, in the first scene of the first
  act, was produced a child in swaddling-clothes, appear a
  full-grown man with a beard in the second; or to represent
  an old man active and valiant, a young soldier cowardly, a
  footman eloquent, a page a counsellor, a king a porter, and
  a princess a scullion. Then what shall we say concerning
  their management of the time and place in which the actions
  have, or may be supposed to have happened? I have seen a
  comedy, the first act of which was laid in Europe, the
  second in Asia, and the third was finished in Africa; nay,
  had there been a fourth, the scene would have shifted to
  America, so that the fable would have travelled through all
  the four divisions of the globe. If imitation be the chief
  aim of comedy, how can any ordinary understanding be
  satisfied with seeing an action that passed in the time of
  King Pepin and Charlemagne, ascribed to the Emperor
  Heraclius, who, being the principal personage, is
  represented, like Godfrey of Boulogne, carrying the cross
  into Jerusalem, and making himself master of the holy
  sepulchre, an infinite number of years having passed between
  the one and the other? Or, when a comedy is founded upon
  fiction, to see scraps of real history introduced, and facts
  misrepresented both with regard to persons and times, not
  with any ingenuity of contrivance, but with the most
  manifest and inexcusable errors and stupidity; and what is
  worst of all, there is a set of ignorant pretenders who call
  this the perfection of writing, and that every attempt to
  succeed by a contrary method is no other than a wild-goose
  chase.

  The bow cannot remain always bent; and relaxation, both of
  body and mind, is indispensable to all.

  Can you deny what is in everybody's mouth, when a person is
  in the dumps? It is always then said, "I know not what such
  a one ails--he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor
  answers to the purpose, like other men--surely he is
  enchanted." Wherefore, it is clear that such, and such only,
  are enchanted who neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep, and not
  they who eat and drink when they can get it, and answer
  properly to all that is asked them.

  The poor man is unable to exercise the virtue of liberality;
  and the gratitude which consists only in inclination is a
  dead thing, even as faith without works is dead. I shall,
  therefore, rejoice when fortune presents me with an
  opportunity of exalting myself, that I may show my heart in
  conferring benefits on my friends, especially on poor Sancho
  Panza here, my squire, who is one of the best men in the
  world; and I would fain bestow on him an earldom, as I have
  long since promised; although I am somewhat in doubt of his
  ability in the government of his estate.


Sancho, overhearing his master's last words, said: "Take you the
trouble, Signor Don Quixote, to procure me that same earldom, which your
worship has so often promised, and I have been so long waiting for, and
you shall see that I shall not want ability to govern it. But even if I
should, there are people, I have heard say, who farm these lordships;
and paying the owners so much a year, take upon themselves the
government of the whole, while his lordship lolls at his ease, enjoying
his estate, without concerning himself any further about it. Just so
will I do, and give myself no more trouble than needs mast, but enjoy
myself like any duke, and let the world rub."

"This, brother Sancho," said the canon, "may be done, as far as regards
the management of your revenue; but the administration of justice must
be attended to by the lord himself, and requires capacity, judgment,
and, above all, an upright intention, without which nothing prospers;
for Heaven assists the good intent of the simple, and disappoints the
evil designs of the cunning."

"I do not understand these philosophies," answered Sancho; "all that I
know is, that I wish I may as surely have the earldom as I should know
how to govern it; for I have as large a soul as another, and as large a
body as the best of them; and I should be as much king of my own
dominion as any other king; would do what I pleased; and, doing what I
pleased, I should have my will; and having my will, I should be
contented; and, being content, there is no more to be desired; and when
there is no more to desire, there is an end of it."

"These are no bad philosophies, as you say, Sancho," quoth the canon;
"nevertheless, there is a great deal more to be said upon the subject of
earldoms."

"That may be," observed Don Quixote; "but I am guided by the numerous
examples offered on this subject by knights of my own profession; who,
in compensation for the loyal and signal services they had received from
their squires, conferred upon them extraordinary favors, making them
absolute lords of cities and islands: indeed, there was one whose
services were so great that he had the presumption to accept of a
kingdom. But why should I say more, when before me is the bright example
of the great Amadis de Gaul, who made his squire knight of the Firm
Island? Surely I may, therefore, without scruple of conscience, make an
earl of Sancho Panza, who is one of the best squires that ever served
knight-errant."

The mountains breed learned men, and the cottages of shepherds contain
philosophers.

Upon the news of Don Quixote's arrival, Sancho Panza's wife repaired
thither, and on meeting him, her first inquiry was whether the ass had
come home well.

Sancho told her that he was in a better condition than his master.

"The Lord be praised," replied she, "for so great a mercy to me! But
tell me, husband, what good have you got by your squireship? Have you
brought a petticoat home for me, and shoes for your children?"

"I have brought you nothing of that sort, dear wife," quoth Sancho; "but
I have got other things of greater consequence."

"I am very glad of that," answered the wife, "pray show me your things
of greater consequence, friend; for I would fain see them, to gladden my
heart, which has been so sad, all the long time you have been away."

"You shall see them at home, wife," quoth Sancho, "and be satisfied at
present; for if it please God that we make another sally in quest of
adventures, you will soon see me an earl or governor of an island, and
no common one either, but one of the best that is to be had."

"Grant Heaven it may be so, husband," quoth the wife, "for we have need
enough of it. But pray tell me what you mean by islands; for I do not
understand you."

"Honey is not for the mouth of an ass," answered Sancho: "in good time,
wife, you shall see, yea, and admire to hear yourself styled ladyship by
all your vassals."

"What do you mean, Sancho, by ladyship, islands, and vassals?" answered
Teresa Panza; for that was Sancho's wife's name, though they were not of
kin, but because it is the custom in La Mancha for the wife to take the
husband's name.

"Be not in so much haste, Teresa, to know all this," said Sancho; "let
it suffice that I tell you the truth, and sew up your mouth. But for the
present know that there is nothing in the world so pleasant to an honest
man, as to be squire to a knight-errant, and seeker of adventures. It is
true indeed, most of them are not so much to a man's mind as he could
wish; for ninety-nine of a hundred one meets with fall out cross and
unlucky. This I know by experience; for I have sometimes come off tossed
in a blanket, and sometimes well cudgelled. Yet, for all that, it is a
fine thing to be in expectation of accidents, traversing mountains,
searching woods, marching over rocks, visiting castles, lodging in inns,
all at discretion, and the devil a farthing to pay."

Fame has preserved in the memoirs of La Mancha, that Don Quixote, the
third time he sallied from home, went to Saragossa, where he was present
at a famous tournament in that city, and that there befell him things
worthy of his valor and good understanding. Nor would the chronicler
have learned any thing concerning his death had he not fortunately
become acquainted with an aged physician, who had in his custody a
leaden box, found, as he said, under the ruins of an ancient hermitage
then rebuilding: in which box was found a manuscript of parchment
written in Gothic characters, but in Castilian verse, containing many of
his exploits, and giving an account of the beauty of Dulcinea del
Toboso, the figure of Rozinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the
burial of Don Quixote himself, with several epitaphs and eulogies on his
life and manners. All that could be read, and perfectly made out, were
those inserted here by the faithful author of this strange and
never-before-seen history; which author desires no other reward from
those who shall read it, in recompense of the vast pains it has cost him
to inquire into and search all the archives of La Mancha to bring it to
light, but that they would afford him the same credit that ingenious
people give to books of knight-errantry, which are so well received in
the world; and herewith he will reckon himself well paid, and will rest
satisfied; and will moreover be encouraged to seek and find out others,
if not as true, at least of as much invention and entertainment. The
first words, written in the parchment which was found in the leaden box,
were these:--


             THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA,
                  A TOWN OF LA MANCHA,
           ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THE VALOROUS
                DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA,
                   HOC SCRIPSERUNT.


_Monicongo, Academician of Argamasilla, on the Sepulture of
                     Don Quixote._

  EPITAPH.

  La Mancha's thunderbolt of war,
    The sharpest wit and loftiest muse,
  The arm which from Gaëta far
    To Catai did its force diffuse;
  He who, through love and valor's fire,
    Outstripped great Amadis's fame
  Bid warlike Galaor retire,
    And silenced Belianis' name:
  He who, with helmet, sword, and shield,
    On Rozinante, steed well known,
  Adventures fought in many a field,
    Lies underneath this frozen stone.


_Paniaguado, Academician of Argamasilla, in praise of Dulcinea
                       Del Toboso._

  SONNET.

  She whom you see the plump and lusty dame,
    With high erected chest and vigorous mien,
  Was erst th' enamored knight Don Quixote's flame,
    The fair Dulcinea, of Toboso, queen.

  For her, armed cap-à-pie with sword and shield,
    He trod the sable mountain o'er and o'er;
  For her he traversed Montiel's well-known field,
    And in her service toils unnumbered bore.
  Hard fate! that death should crop so fine a flower!
  And love o'er such a knight exert his tyrant power!


_Caprichoso, a most ingenious Academician of Argamasilla, in
          praise of Don Quixote's Horse Rozinante._

  SONNET.

    On the aspiring adamantine trunk
  Of a huge tree, whose root, with slaughter drunk
  Sends forth a scent of war, La Mancha's knight,
  Frantic with valor, and returned from fight,
  His bloody standard trembling in the air,
  Hangs up his glittering armor beaming far,
  With that fine-tempered steel whose edge o'erthrows,
  Hacks, hews, confounds, and routs opposing foes.
  Unheard-of prowess! and unheard-of verse!
  But art new strains invents, new glories to rehearse.

    If Amadis to Grecia gives renown,
  Much more her chief does fierce Bellona crown.
  Prizing La Mancha more than Gaul or Greece,
  As Quixote triumphs over Amadis.
  Oblivion ne'er shall shroud his glorious name,
  Whose very horse stands up to challenge fame!
  Illustrious Rozinante, wondrous steed!
  Not with more generous pride or mettled speed,
  His rider erst Rinaldo's Bayard bore,
  Or his mad lord, Orlando's Brilladore.


_Burlador, the little Academician of Argamasilla, on Sancho Panza._

  SONNET.

  See Sancho Panza, view him well,
  And let this verse his praises tell.
  His body was but small, 'tis true,
  Yet had a soul as large as two.
  No guile he knew, like some before him
  But simple as his mother bore him.
  This gentle squire on gentle ass
  Went gentle Rozinante's pace,
  Following his lord from place to place.
  To be an earl he did aspire,
  And reason good for such desire;
  But worth in these ungrateful times,
  To envied honor seldom climbs.
  Vain mortals! give your wishes o'er,
  And trust the flatterer Hope no more,
  Whose promises, whate'er they seem,
  End in a shadow or a dream.


_Cachidiablo, Academician of Argamasilla, on the Sepulture of
                      Don Quixote._

  EPITAPH.

  Here lies an evil-errant knight,
    Well bruised in many a fray,
  Whose courser, Rozinante hight,
    Long bore him many a way.

  Close by his loving master's side
    Lies booby Sancho Panza,
  A trusty squire of courage tried,
    And true as ever man saw.


_Tiquitoc, Academician of Argamasilla, on the sepulture of Dulcinea
                            del Toboso._

  Dulcinea, fat and fleshy, lies
    Beneath this frozen stone;
  But, since to frightful death a prize,
    Reduced to skin and bone.

  Of goodly parentage she came,
    And had the lady in her;
  She was the great Don Quixote's flame,
    But only death could win her.


These were all the verses that could be read: the rest, the characters
being worm-eaten, were consigned to one of the Academicians, to find out
their meaning by conjectures. We are informed he has done it, after many
lucubrations and much pains, and that he designs to publish them, giving
us hopes of Don Quixote's third sally.

 "Forsi altro cantara con miglior plectro."


  The noble mind may be clouded by adversity, but cannot be
  wholly concealed; for true merit shines by a light of its
  own, and, glimmering through the rents and crannies of
  indigence, is perceived, respected, and honored by the
  generous and the great.


A SHORT STORY OF WHAT HAPPENED ONCE IN SEVILLE.

A certain man, being deranged in his intellects, was placed by his
relations in the mad-house of Seville. He had taken his degrees in the
canon law at Ossuna; but had it been at Salamanca, many are of opinion
he would, nevertheless, have been mad. This graduate, after some years'
confinement, took into his head that he was quite in his right senses,
and therefore wrote to the archbishop, beseeching him, with great
earnestness and apparently with much reason, that he would be pleased to
deliver him from that miserable state of confinement in which he lived;
since, through the mercy of God, he had regained his senses; adding that
his relations, in order to enjoy part of his estate, kept him still
there, and, in spite of the clearest evidence, would insist upon his
being mad as long as he lived.

The archbishop, prevailed upon by the many sensible epistles he received
from him, sent one of his chaplains to the keeper of the mad-house to
inquire into the truth of what the licentiate had alleged, and also to
talk with him, and if it appeared that he was in his senses, to set him
at liberty. The chaplain accordingly went to the rector, who assured him
that the man was still insane, for though he sometimes talked very
sensibly, it was seldom for any length of time without betraying his
derangement; as he would certainly find on conversing with him. The
chaplain determined to make the trial, and during the conversation of
more than an hour, could perceive no symptom of incoherence in his
discourse; on the contrary, he spoke with so much sedateness and
judgment that the chaplain could not entertain a doubt of the sanity of
his intellects. Among other things he assured him that the keeper was
bribed by his relations to persist in reporting him to be deranged; so
that his large estate was his great misfortune, to enjoy which his
enemies had recourse to fraud, and pretended to doubt of the mercy of
Heaven in restoring him from the condition of a brute to that of a man.
In short, he talked so plausibly that he made the rector appear venal
and corrupt, his relations unnatural, and himself so discreet that the
chaplain determined to take him immediately to the archbishop, that he
might be satisfied he had done right.

With this resolution the good chaplain desired the keeper of the house
to restore to him the clothes which he wore when he was first put under
his care. The keeper again desired him to beware what he did, since he
might be assured that the licentiate was still insane; but the chaplain
was not to be moved either by his cautions or entreaties; and as he
acted by order of the archbishop, the keeper was compelled to obey him.
The licentiate put on his new clothes, and now, finding himself rid of
his lunatic attire, and habited like a rational creature, he entreated
the chaplain, for charity's sake, to permit him to take leave of his
late companions in affliction. Being desirous of seeing the lunatics
who were confined in that house, the chaplain, with several other
persons, followed him upstairs, and heard him accost a man who lay
stretched in his cell outrageously mad; though just then composed and
quiet. "Brother," said he to him, "have you any commands for me? for I
am going to return to my own house, God having been pleased, of His
infinite goodness and mercy, without any desert of mine, to restore me
to my senses. I am now sound and well, for with God nothing is
impossible; put your whole trust and confidence in Him, and he will
doubtless restore you also. I will take care to send you some choice
food; and fail not to eat it: for I have reason to believe, from my own
experience, that all our distraction proceeds from empty stomachs, and
brains filled with wind. Take heart, then, my friend, take heart; for
despondence under misfortune impairs our health, and hastens our death."

This discourse was overheard by another madman, who was in an opposite
cell; and raising himself up from an old mat, whereon he had thrown
himself stark naked, he demanded aloud, who it was that was going away
recovered and in his senses.

"It is I, brother," answered the licentiate, "that am going; for I need
stay no longer here, and am infinitely thankful to heaven for having
bestowed so great a blessing upon me."

"Take heed, licentiate, what you say, let not the devil delude you,"
replied the madman; "stir not a foot, but keep where you are, and you
will spare yourself the trouble of being brought back."

"I know," replied the licentiate, "that I am perfectly well, and shall
have no more occasion to visit the station churches."[6]

"You well?" said the madman; "we shall soon see that; farewell! but I
swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that for this
offence alone, which Seville is now committing, in carrying you out of
this house, and judging you to be in your senses, I am determined to
inflict such a signal punishment on this city, that the memory thereof
shall endure for ever and ever, Amen. Know you not, little crazed
licentiate, that I can do it, since, as I say, I am thundering Jupiter,
who hold in my hands the flaming bolts, with which I can, and use, to
threaten and destroy the world? But in one thing only will I chastise
this ignorant people; and that is, there shall no rain fall on this
town, or in all its district, for three whole years, reckoning from the
day and hour in which this threatening is denounced. You at liberty, you
recovered, and in your right senses! and I a madman, I distempered and
in bonds! I will no more rain than I will hang myself."

All the bystanders were very attentive to the madman's discourse: but
our licentiate, turning himself to our chaplain, and holding him by both
hands, said to him: "Be in no pain, good sir, nor make any account of
what this madman has said; for, if he is Jupiter and will not rain, I,
who am Neptune, the father and the god of the waters, will rain as
often as I please, and whenever there shall be occasion." To which the
chaplain answered: "However, signor Neptune, it will not be convenient
at present to provoke signor Jupiter; therefore, pray stay where you
are; for, some other time, when we have a better opportunity and more
leisure, we will come for you." The rector and the bystanders laughed;
which put the chaplain half out of countenance. They disrobed the
licentiate, who remained where he was; and there is an end of the story.


  True valor lies in the middle, between the extremes of
  cowardice and rashness.

  No padlocks, bolts, or bars can secure a maiden so well as
  her own reserve.

  Honey is not for the mouth of an ass.

  He must be blind, indeed, who cannot see through a sieve.

  Comparisons, whether as to sense, courage, beauty, or rank,
  are always offensive.

  Scruples of conscience afford no peace.

  You have reckoned without your host.

  When the head aches, all the members ache also.

  _Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia_;--_i. e._, Will put
  me on St. Lucia's thorn; applicable to any uneasy situation.

  Let every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not take
  white for black, nor black for white; for we are all as God
  made us, and oftentimes a great deal worse.


"First and foremost, then," said Sancho, "the common people take your
worship for a downright madman, and me for no less a fool. The gentry
say that, not content to keep to your own proper rank of a gentleman,
you call yourself Don, and set up for a knight, with no more than a
paltry vineyard and a couple of acres of land. The cavaliers say they do
not choose to be vied with by those country squires who clout their
shoes, and take up the fallen stitches of their black stockings with
green silk."

"That," said Don Quixote, "is no reflection upon me; for I always go
well clad, and my apparel is never patched; a little torn it may be, but
more by the fretting of my armor than by time."

"As to your valor, courtesy, achievements, and undertakings," continued
Sancho, "there are many different opinions. Some say you are mad, but
humorous; others, valiant, but unfortunate; others, courteous, but
absurd; and thus they pull us to pieces, till they leave neither your
worship nor me a single feather upon our backs."

"Take notice, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that, when virtue exists in an
eminent degree, it is always persecuted."

"There cannot be a more legitimate source of gratification to a virtuous
and distinguished man," said Don Quixote, "than to have his good name
celebrated during his lifetime, and circulated over different nations; I
say his good name, for if it were otherwise than good, death in any
shape would be preferable."


  To be represented otherwise than with approbation is worse
  than the worst of deaths.

  There are as many different opinions as there are different
  tastes.

  _Pedir cotufas en el golfo_, signifies to look for truffles
  in the sea, a proverb applicable to those who are too
  sanguine in their expectations and unreasonable in their
  desires.

  "There is no necessity for recording actions which are
  prejudicial to the hero, without being essential to the
  history. It is not to be supposed that Æneas was in all his
  actions so pure as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so
  uniformly prudent as he is described by Homer."


"True," replied Sampson; "but it is one thing to write as a poet, and
another to write as an historian. The poet may say or sing, not as
things were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian must pen
them not as they ought to have been, but as they really were, without
adding to or diminishing aught from the truth."


  There is no human history that, does not contain reverses of
  fortune.

  Let every man take care how he speaks or writes of honest
  people, and not set down at a venture the first thing that
  comes uppermost.


"Sancho, thou art an arch rogue," replied Don Quixote, "and in faith,
upon some occasions, hast no want of memory."

"Though I wanted ever so much to forget what my poor body has suffered,"
quoth Sancho, "the tokens that are still fresh on my ribs would not let
me."

"Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and let signor bachelor proceed,
that I may know what is further said of me in the history."

"And of me too," quoth Sancho, "for I hear that I am one of the
principal parsons in it."

"Persons, not parsons, friend Sancho," quoth Sampson.

"What, have we another corrector of words?" quoth Sancho; "if we are to
go on at this rate, we shall make slow work of it."

"As sure as I live, Sancho," answered the bachelor, "you are the second
person of the history; nay, there are those who had rather hear you talk
than the finest fellow of them all; though there are also some who
charge you with being too credulous in expecting the government of that
island promised you by Signor Don Quixote, here present."

"There is still sunshine on the wall," quoth Don Quixote; "and when
Sancho is more advanced in age, with the experience that years bestow,
he will be better qualified to be a governor than he is at present."

"'Fore Gad! sir," quoth Sancho, "if I am not fit to govern an island at
these years, I shall be no better, able at the age of Methusalem. The
mischief of it is, that the said island sticks somewhere else, and not
in my want of a headpiece to govern it."

"Recommend the matter to God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and all will
be well--perhaps better than thou mayst think; for not a leaf stirs on
the tree without his permission."

"That is very true," quoth Sampson; "and if it please God, Sancho will
not want a thousand islands to govern, much less one."

"I have seen governors ere now," quoth Sancho, "who, in my opinion, do
not come up to the sole of my shoe; and yet they are called 'your
lordship,' and eat their victuals upon plate."


  With hay or with straw it is all the same.

  Much knowledge and a mature understanding are requisite for
  an historian.

  Wit and humor belong to genius alone.

  The wittiest person in the comedy is he that plays the fool.

  History is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is
  truth; and where truth is, there the divinity will reside;
  yet there are some who compose and cast off books as if they
  were tossing up a dish of pancakes.

  There is no book so bad but something good may be found in
  it.

  Printed works may be read leisurely, their defects easily
  seen, so they are scrutinized more or less strictly in
  proportion to the celebrity of the author.

  "Men of great talents, whether poets or historians, seldom
  escape the attacks of those who, without ever favoring the
  world with any production of their own, take delight in
  criticising the works of others."


"Nor can we wonder at that," said Don Quixote, "when we observe the same
practice among divines, who, though dull enough in the pulpit
themselves, are wonderfully sharp-sighted in discovering the defects of
other preachers."

"True, indeed, Signor Don Quixote," said Carrasco; "I wish critics would
be less fastidious, nor dwell so much upon the motes which may be
discerned even in the brightest works; for, though _aliquando bonus
dormitat Homerus_, they ought to consider how much he was awake to
produce a work with so much light and so little shade; nay, perhaps even
his seeming blemishes are like moles, which are sometimes thought to be
rather an improvement to beauty. But it cannot be denied that whoever
publishes a book to the world, exposes himself to imminent peril, since,
of all things, nothing is more impossible than to satisfy everybody.
Above all, I would let my master know that, if he takes me with him, it
must be upon condition that he shall battle it all himself, and that I
shall only have to tend his person--I mean, look after his clothes and
food; all which I will do with a hearty good-will; but if he expects I
will lay hand to my sword, though it be only against beggarly
wood-cutters with hooks and hatchets, he is very much mistaken. I,
Signor Sampson, do not set up for being the most valiant, but the best
and most faithful squire that ever served knight-errant; and if my lord
Don Quixote, in consideration of my many and good services, shall please
to bestow on me some one of the many islands his worship says he shall
light upon, I shall be much beholden to him for the favor; and if he
give me none, here I am, and it is better to trust God than each other;
and mayhap my government bread might not go down so sweet as that which
I should eat without it; and how? do I know but the devil, in one of
these governments, might set up a stumbling-block in my way, over which
I might fall, and dash out my grinders? Sancho I was born, and Sancho I
expect to die; yet for all that, if, fairly and squarely, without much
care or much risk, Heaven should chance to throw an island, or some such
thing, in my way, I am not such a fool neither as to refuse it; for, as
the saying is, 'when the heifer is offered, be ready with the rope.'"


  When good fortune knocks, make haste to bid her welcome.


"Brother Sancho," quoth the bachelor, "you have spoken like any
professor; nevertheless, trust in Heaven and Signor Don Quixote, and
then you may get not only an island but even a kingdom."

"One as likely as the other," answered Sancho, "though I could tell
Signor Carrasco that my master will not throw the kingdom he gives me
into a rotten sack; for I have felt my pulse, and find myself strong
enough to rule kingdoms and govern islands; and so much I have signified
before now to my master."

"Take heed, Sancho," quoth the bachelor, "for honors change manners; and
it may come to pass, when you are a governor, that you may not know even
your own mother."

"That," answered Sancho, "may be the case with those that are born among
the mallows, but not with one whose soul, like mine, is covered four
inches thick with the grace of an old Christian. No, no, I am not one of
the ungrateful sort."

"Heaven grant it," said Don Quixote; "but we shall see when the
government comes, and methinks I have it already in my eye."

Sancho went home in such high spirits that his wife observed his gayety
a bow-shot off, insomuch that she could not help saying, "What makes you
look so blithe, friend Sancho?"

To which he answered: "Would to Heaven, dear wife, I were not so well
pleased as I seem to be!"

"I know not what you mean, husband," replied she, "by saying you wish
you were not so much pleased; now, silly as I am, I cannot guess how any
one can desire not to be pleased."

"Look you, Teresa," answered Sancho, "I am thus merry because I am
about to return to the service of my master, Don Quixote, who is going
again in search after adventures, and I am to accompany him, for so my
fate wills it. Besides, I am merry with the hopes of finding another
hundred crowns like those we have spent, though it grieves me to part
from you and my children; and if Heaven would be pleased to give me
bread, dryshod and at home, without dragging me over crags and
cross-paths, it is plain that my joy would be better grounded, since it
is now mingled with sorrow for leaving you; so that I was right in
saying that I should be glad if it pleased Heaven I were not so Well
pleased."

"Look you, Sancho," replied Teresa, "ever since you have been a
knight-errant man you talk in such a roundabout manner that nobody can
understand you."

"It is enough, wife," said Sancho, "that God understands me, for He is
the understander of all things; and so much for that. And do you hear,
wife, it behooves you to take special care of Dapple for these three or
four days to come, that he may be in a condition to bear arms; so double
his allowance, and get the pack-saddle in order and the rest of his
tackling, for we are not going to a wedding, but to roam about the world
and to give and take with giants, fiery dragons, and goblins, and to
hear hissings, roarings, bellowings, and bleatings, all which would be
but flowers of lavender if we had not to do with Yangueses and enchanted
Moors."

"I believe, indeed, husband," replied Teresa, "that your squires-errant
do not eat their bread for nothing, and therefore I shall not fail to
beseech Heaven to deliver you speedily from so much evil hap."

"I tell you, wife," answered Sancho, "that did I not expect, ere long,
to see myself governor of an island, I vow I should drop down dead upon
the spot."

"Not so, good husband," quoth Teresa, "let the hen live, though it be
with the pip. Do you live, and the devil take all the governments in the
world! Without a government you came into the world, without a
government you have lived till now, and without it you can be carried to
your grave whenever it shall please God. How many folks are there in the
world that have no government! and yet they live and are reckoned among
the people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as that is never
wanting to the poor, they always eat with a relish. But if, perchance,
Sancho, you should get a government, do not forget me and your children.
Consider that your son Sancho is just fifteen years old, and it is fit
he should go to school if his uncle the abbot means to breed him up to
the church. Consider, also, that Mary Sancha, your daughter, will not
break her heart if we marry her; for I am mistaken if she has not as
much mind to a husband as you have to a government. And verily say I,
better a daughter but humbly married than highly kept."

"In good faith, dear wife," said Sancho, "if Heaven be so good to me
that I get anything like a government, I will match Mary Sancha so
highly that there will be no coming near her without calling her your
ladyship."

"Not so, Sancho," answered Teresa, "the best way is to marry her to her
equal; for if you lift her from clouted shoes to high heels, and
instead of her russet coat of fourteenpenny stuff, give her a
farthingale and petticoats of silk, and instead of plain Molly and thou
she be called madam and your ladyship, the girl will not know where she
is and will fall into a thousand mistakes at every step, showing her
homespun country stuff."

"Peace, fool!" quoth Sancho, "she has only to practise two or three
years and the gravity will set upon her as if it were made for her; and
if not, what matters it? Let her be a lady, and come of it what will."

"Measure yourself by your condition, Sancho," answered Teresa, "and do
not seek to raise yourself higher, but remember the proverb, 'Wipe your
neighbor's son's nose and take him into your house.' It would be a
pretty business, truly, to marry our Mary to some great count or knight,
who, when the fancy takes him, would look upon her as some strange
thing, and be calling her country-wench, clod-breaker's brat, and I know
not what else. No, not while I live, husband; I have not brought up my
child to be so used. Do you provide money, Sancho, and leave the
matching of her to my care; for there is Lope Tocho, John Tocho's son, a
lusty, hale young man, whom we know, and I am sure he has a sneaking
kindness for the girl. To him she will be very well married, considering
he is our equal, and will be always under our eye; and we shall be all
as one, parents and children, grandsons and sons-in-law, and so the
peace and blessing of Heaven will be among us all; and do not you be for
marrying her at your courts and great palaces, where they will neither
understand her nor she understand herself."

"Hark you, beast, and wife for Barabbas," replied Sancho, "why would you
now, without rhyme or reason, hinder me from marrying my daughter with
one who may bring me grandchildren that may be styled your lordships?
Look you, Teresa, I have always heard my betters say, 'He that will not
when he may, when he will he shall have nay'; and it would be wrong, now
that fortune is knocking at our door, not to open it and bid her
welcome. Let us spread our sail to the favorable gale, now that it
blows.' ... Can't you perceive, animal, with half an eye," proceeded
Sancho, "that I shall act wisely, in devoting this body of mine to some
beneficial government that will lift us out of the dirt, and enable me
to match Mary Sancha according to my own good pleasure; then wilt thou
hear thyself called Donna Teresa Panza, and find thyself seated at
church upon carpets, cushions, and tapestry, in despite and defiance of
all the small gentry in the parish; and not be always in the same moping
circumstances, without increase or diminution, like a picture in the
hangings. But no more of this; Sanchica shall be a countess, though thou
shouldst cry thy heart out."

"Look before you leap, husband," answered Teresa; "after all, I wish to
God this quality of my daughter may not be the cause of her perdition;
take your own way, and make her duchess or princess, or what you please;
but I'll assure you it shall never be with my consent or good-will; I
was always a lover of equality, my dear, and can't bear to see people
hold their heads high without reason. Teresa was I christened, a bare
and simple name, without the addition, garniture, and embroidery of Don
or Donna; my father's name is Cascajo, and mine, as being your spouse,
Teresa Panza, though by rights I should be called Teresa Cascajo; but as
the king minds, the law binds; and with that name am I contented, though
it be not burdened with a Don, which weighs so heavy that I should not
be able to bear it. Neither will I put it in the power of those who see
me dressed like a countess or governor's lady, to say: 'Mind Mrs.
Porkfeeder, how proud she looks! it was but yesterday she toiled hard at
the distaff, and went to mass with the tail of her gown about her head,
instead of a veil; but now, forsooth, she has got her fine farthingales
and jewels, and holds up her head as if we did not know her.' If God
preserves me in my seven or five senses, or as many as they be, I shall
never bring myself into such a quandary. As for your part, spouse, you
may go to your governments and islands, and be as proud as a peacock;
but as for my daughter and me, by the life of my father! we will not
stir one step from the village; for, the wife that deserves a good name,
stays at home as if she were lame; and the maid must be still a-doing,
that hopes to see the men come awooing."


  He that covers, discovers.

  The poor man is scarcely looked at, while every eye is
  turned upon the rich; and if the poor man grows rich and
  great, then I warrant you there is work enough for your
  grumblers and backbiters, who swarm everywhere like bees.

  "The first time, he was brought home to us laid athwart an
  ass, all battered and bruised. The second time he returned
  in an ox-wagon, locked up in a cage, and so changed, poor
  soul, that his own mother would not have known him; so
  feeble, wan, and withered, and his eyes sunk into the
  farthest corner of his brains, insomuch that it took me
  above six hundred eggs to get him a little up again, as
  Heaven and the world is my witness, and my hens, that will
  not let me lie."

  "I can easily believe that," answered the bachelor; "for
  your hens are too well bred and fed to say one thing and
  mean another."

  All objects present to the view exist, and are impressed
  upon the imagination with much greater energy and force,
  than those which we only remember to have seen.

  When we see any person finely dressed, and set off with rich
  apparel and with a train of servants, we are moved to show
  him respect; for, though we cannot but remember certain
  scurvy matters either of poverty or parentage, that formerly
  belonged to him, but which being long gone by are almost
  forgotten, we only think of what we see before our eyes. And
  if, as the preacher said, the person so raised by good luck,
  from nothing, as it were, to the tip-top of prosperity, be
  well behaved, generous, and civil, and gives himself no
  ridiculous airs, pretending to vie with the old nobility,
  take my word for it, Teresa, nobody will twit him with what
  he was, but will respect him for what he is; except, indeed
  the envious, who hate every man's good luck.

  People are always ready enough to lend their money to
  governors.

  Clothe the boy so that he may look not like what he is, but
  what he may be.

  To this burden women are born, they must obey their husbands
  if they are ever such blockheads.

  He that's coy when fortune's kind, may after seek but never
  find.

  All knights cannot be courtiers, neither can all courtiers
  be knights.

  The courtier knight travels only on a map, without fatigue
  or expense; he neither suffers heat nor cold, hunger nor
  thirst; while the true knight-errant explores every quarter
  of the habitable world, and is by night and day, on foot or
  on horseback, exposed to all the vicissitudes of the
  weather.

  All are not affable and well-bred; on the contrary, some
  there are extremely brutal and impolite. All those who call
  themselves knights, are not entitled to that distinction;
  some being of pure gold, and others of baser metal,
  notwithstanding the denomination they assume. But these last
  cannot stand the touch-stone of truth; there are mean
  plebeians, who sweat and struggle to maintain the appearance
  of gentlemen; and, on the other hand, there are gentlemen of
  rank who seem industrious to appear mean and degenerate; the
  one sort raise themselves either by ambition or virtue,
  while the other abase themselves by viciousness or sloth; so
  that we must avail ourselves of our understanding and
  discernment in distinguishing those persons, who, though
  they bear the same appellation, are yet so different in
  point of character. All the genealogies in the world may be
  reduced to four kinds. The first are those families who from
  a low beginning have raised and extended themselves, until
  they have reached the highest pinnacle of human greatness;
  the second are those of high extraction, who have preserved
  their original dignity; the third sort are those who, from a
  great foundation, have gradually dwindled, until, like a
  pyramid, they terminate in a small point. The last, which
  are the most numerous class, are those who have begun and
  continue low, and who must end the same.

  Genealogies are involved in endless confusion, and those
  only are illustrious and great who are distinguished by
  their virtue and liberality, as well as their riches; for
  the great man who is vicious is only a great sinner, and the
  rich man who wants liberality is but a miserly pauper.

  The gratification which wealth can bestow is not in mere
  possession, nor in lavishing it with prodigality, but in the
  wise application of it.

  The poor knight can only manifest his rank by his virtues
  and general conduct. He must be well-bred, courteous, kind,
  and obliging; not proud nor arrogant; no murmurer. Above
  all, he must be charitable, and by two maravedis given
  cheerfully to the poor he shall display as much generosity
  as the rich man who bestows large alms by sound of bell. Of
  such a man no one would doubt his honorable descent, and
  general applause wall be the sure reward of his virtue.

  There are two roads by which men may attain riches and
  honor: the one by letters, the other by arms.

  The path of virtue is narrow, that of vice is spacious and
  broad; as the great Castilian poet expresses it:--

    "By these rough paths of toil and pain
    The immortal seats of bliss we gain,
    Denied to those who heedless stray
    In tempting pleasure's flowery way."

  Fast bind, fast find.

  He who shuffles is not he who cuts.

  A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

  Though there is little in a woman's advice, yet he that
  won't take it is not over-wise.

  We are all mortal: here to-day and gone to-morrow.

  The lamb goes to the spit as soon as the sheep.

  No man in this world can promise himself more hours of life
  than God is pleased to grant him; because death if deaf, and
  when he knocks at the door of life is always in a hurry, and
  will not be detained either by fair means or force, by
  sceptres or mitres, as the report goes, and as we have often
  heard it declared from the pulpit.

  The hen sits, if it be but upon one egg.

  Many littles make a mickle, and he that is getting aught is
  losing naught.

  While there are peas in the dove-cote, it shall never want
  pigeons.

  A good reversion is better than bad possession, and a good
  claim better than bad pay.

  The bread eaten, the company broke up.

  A man must be a man, and a woman a woman.

  Nothing inspires a knight-errant with so much valor as the
  favor of his mistress.

  O envy! thou root of infinite mischief and canker-worm of
  virtue! The commission of all other vices, Sancho, is
  attended with some sort of delight; but envy produces
  nothing in the heart that harbors it but rage, rancor, and
  disgust.

  The love of fame is one of the most active principles in the
  human breast.

  Let us keep our holy days in peace, and not throw the rope
  after the bucket.

"And now pray tell me which is the most difficult, to raise a dead man
to life or to slay a giant?"

"The answer is very obvious," answered Don Quixote; "to raise a dead
man."

"There I have caught you!" quoth Sancho. "Then his fame who raises the
dead, gives sight to the blind, makes the lame walk, and cures the sick;
who has lamps burning near his grave, and good Christians always in his
chapels, adoring his relics upon their knees,--his fame, I say, shall be
greater both in this world and the next than that which all the heathen
emperors and knights-errant in the world ever had or ever shall have."

"I grant it," answered Don Quixote.

"Then," replied Sancho, "the bodies and relics of saints have this power
and grace, and these privileges, or how do you call them, and with the
license of our holy mother church have their lamps, winding-sheets,
crutches, pictures, perukes, eyes, and legs, whereby they increase
people's devotion and spread abroad their own Christian fame. Kings
themselves carry the bodies or relics of saints upon their shoulders,
kiss the fragments of their bones, and adorn their chapels and most
favorite altars with them."

"Certainly, but what wouldst thou infer from all this, Sancho?" quoth
Don Quixote.

"What I mean," said Sancho, "is, that we had better turn saints
immediately, and we shall then soon get that fame we are seeking after.
And pray take notice, sir, that it was but yesterday--I mean very
lately--a couple of poor barefooted friars were canonized, and people
now reckon it a greater happiness to touch or kiss the iron chains that
bound them, and which are now held in greater veneration than Orlando's
sword in the armory of our lord the king, Heaven save him; so that it is
better to be a poor friar of the meanest order than the bravest
knight-errant, because four dozen of good penitent lashes are more
esteemed in the sight of God than two thousand tilts with a lance,
though it be against giants, goblins, or dragons."

"I confess," answered Don Quixote, "all this is true. We cannot all be
friars, and many and various are the ways by which God conducts his
elect to Heaven. Chivalry is a kind of religious profession, and some
knights are now saints in glory."

"True," quoth Sancho, "but I have heard say there are more friars in
Heaven than knights-errant."

"It may well be so," replied Don Quixote, "because their number is much
greater than that of knights-errant."

"And yet," quoth Sancho, "there are abundance of the errant sort."

"Abundance, indeed," answered Don Quixote, "but few who deserve the name
of knight."

  There is a time for jesting, and a time when jokes are
  unseasonable.

  Truth may bend but never break, and will ever rise above
  falsehood, like oil above water.

  With lovers the external actions and gestures are couriers,
  which bear authentic tidings of what is passing in the
  interior of the soul.

  A stout heart flings misfortune.

  Where you meet with no books you need expect no bacon.

  The hare often starts where the hunter least expects her.

  There is a remedy for everything but death, who will take us
  in his clutches spite of our teeth.

  Show me who thou art with, and I will tell thee what thou
  art.

  Not with whom thou wert bred, but with whom thou art fed.

  Sorrow was made for man, not for beasts; yet if men
  encourage melancholy too much, they become no better than
  beasts.

"Thou bringest me good news, then?" cried Don Quixote.

"So good," answered Sancho, "that your worship has only to clap spurs to
Rozinante, and get out upon the plain, to see the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, who, with a couple of her damsels, is coming to pay your worship
a visit."

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Don Quixote, "what dost thou say? Take care
that thou beguilest not my real sorrow by a counterfeit joy."

"What should I get," answered Sancho, "by deceiving your worship, only
to be found out the next moment? Come, sir, put on, and you will see the
princess our mistress all arrayed and adorned--in short, like herself.
She and her damsels are one blaze of naming gold; all strings of pearls,
all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of tissue above ten hands deep;
their hair loose about their shoulders, like so many sunbeams blowing
about in the wind; and what is more, they come mounted upon three pied
belfreys, the finest you ever laid eyes on."

"Palfreys, thou wouldst say, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote.

"Well, well," answered Sancho, "belfreys and palfreys are much the same
thing; but let them be mounted how they will, they are sure the finest
creatures one would wish to see; especially my mistress the princess
Dulcinea, who dazzles one's senses."

They were now got out of the wood, and saw the three wenches very near.

Don Quixote looked eagerly along the road towards Toboso, and seeing
nobody but the three wenches, he asked Sancho, in much agitation,
whether they were out of the city when he left them.

"Out of the city!" answered Sancho; "are your worship's eyes in the
nape of your neck, that you do not see them now before you, shining like
the sun at noon-day?"

"I see only three country girls," answered Don Quixote, "on three
asses."

"Now, Heaven keep me from the devil," answered Sancho; "is it possible
that three palfreys, or how do you call them, white as the driven snow,
should look to you like asses? As the Lord liveth, you shall pluck off
this beard of mine if it be so."

"I tell thee, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that it is as
certain they are asses, as that I am Don Quixote and thou Sancho
Panza;--at least, so they seem to me."

"Sir," quoth Sancho, "say not such a thing; but snuff those eyes of
yours, and come and pay reverence to the mistress of your soul." So
saying he advanced forward to meet the peasant girls, and, alighting
from Dapple, he laid hold of one of their asses by the halter, and
bending both knees to the ground, said to the girl: "Queen, princess,
and duchess of beauty, let your haughtiness and greatness be pleased to
receive into grace and good-liking your captive knight, who stands
turned there into stone, all disorder, and without any pulse, to find
himself before your magnificent presence. I am Sancho Panza, his squire,
and he is that way-worn knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise
called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure."


  It is not courage, but rashness, for one man singly to
  encounter an army, where death is present, and where
  emperors fight in person, assisted by good and bad angels.

  Good Christians should never revenge injuries.

  A sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the wing.

  At the conclusion of this drama of life, death strips us of
  the robes which make the difference between man and man, and
  leaves us all on one level in the grave.

  From a friend to a friend,[7] etc.

  Nor let it be taken amiss that any comparison should be made
  between the mutual cordiality of animals and that of men;
  for much useful knowledge and many salutary precepts have
  been taught by the brute creation.

  We may learn gratitude as well as vigilance from cranes,
  foresight from ants, modesty from elephants, and loyalty
  from horses.

  Harken, and we shall discover his thoughts by his song, for
  out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.[8]


  SONNET.

  Bright authoress of my good or ill,
    Prescribe the law I must observe;
  My heart, obedient to thy will,
    Shall never from its duty swerve.

  If you refuse my griefs to know,
    The stifled anguish seals my fate;
  But if your ears would drink my woe,
    Love shall himself the tale relate.

  Though contraries my heart compose,
    Hard as the diamond's solid frame,
  And soft as yielding wax that flows,
    To thee, my fair, 'tis still the same.

  Take it, for every stamp prepared;
    Imprint what characters you choose;
  The faithful tablet, soft or hard,
    The dear impression ne'er shall lose.


  The sorrows that may arise from well-placed affections,
  ought rather to be accounted blessings than calamities.

  Good fare lessens care.

  The rarest sporting is that we find at other people's cost.

  Covetousness bursts the bag.

  Other folk's burdens break the ass's back.

  There is no road so smooth but it has its stumbling-places.

  Madness will have more followers than discretion.

  Comparisons in grief lessen its weight.

  If the blind lead the blind, both may fall into the ditch.

  A good paymaster needs no pledge.

  Nobody knows the heart of his neighbor; some go out for wool
  and come home shorn.

  Let us drink and live, for time takes care to rid us of our
  lives, without our seeking ways to go before our appointed
  term and season.

"You must know I have had in my family, by the father's side, two of the
rarest tasters that were ever known in La Mancha; and I will give you a
proof of their skill. A certain hogshead was given to each of them to
taste, and their opinion asked as to the condition, quality, goodness,
or badness, of the wine. One tried it with the tip of his tongue; the
other only put it to his nose. The first said the wine savored of iron;
the second said it had rather a twang of goat's leather. The owner
protested that the vessel was clean, and the wine neat, so that it could
not taste either of iron or leather. Notwithstanding this, the two
famous tasters stood positively to what they had said. Time went on;
the wine was sold off, and, on cleaning the cask, a small key, hanging
to a leathern thong, was found at the bottom. Judge then, sir, whether
one of that race may not be well entitled to give his opinion in these
matters."

"That being the case," quoth he of the wood, "we should leave off
seeking adventures, and, since we have a good loaf, let us not look for
cheesecakes."


  The conquered must be at the discretion of the conqueror.

  It is easy to undertake, but more difficult to finish a
  thing.

  "Pray, which is the greater madman, he who is so because he
  cannot help it, or he who is so on purpose?"

  "The difference between these two sorts of madmen is,"
  replied Sampson, "that he who cannot help it will remain so,
  and he who deliberately plays the fool may leave off when he
  thinks fit."

  Heaven knows the truth of all things.

  The ancient sages, who were not enlightened with the
  knowledge of the true God, reckoned the gifts of fortune and
  nature, abundance of friends, and increase of dutiful
  children, as constituting part of the supreme happiness.

  Letters without virtue are like pearls on a dunghill.


DON QUIXOTE ON POETRY.

Poetry I regard as a tender virgin, young and extremely beautiful, whom
divers other virgins--namely, all the other sciences--are assiduous to
enrich, to polish, and adorn. She is to be served by them, and they are
to be ennobled through her. But the same virgin is not to be rudely
handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed in the
market-places, nor posted on the corners of gates of palaces. She is of
so exquisite a nature that he who knows how to treat her will convert
her into gold of the most inestimable value. He who possesses her should
guard her with vigilance; neither suffering her to be polluted by
obscene, nor degraded by dull and frivolous works. Although she must be
in no wise venal, she is not, therefore, to despise the fair reward of
honorable labors, either in heroic or dramatic composition. Buffoons
must not come near her, neither must she be approached by the ignorant
vulgar, who have no sense of her charms; and this term is equally
applicable to all ranks, for whoever is ignorant is vulgar. He,
therefore, who, with the qualifications I have named, devotes himself to
poetry, will be honored and esteemed by all nations distinguished for
intellectual cultivation.

Indeed, it is generally said that the gift of poesy is innate--that is,
a poet is born a poet, and, thus endowed by Heaven, apparently without
study or art, composes things which verify the saying, _Est Deus in
nobis_, etc. Thus the poet of nature, who improves himself by art, rises
far above him who is merely the creature of study. Art may improve, but
cannot surpass nature; and, therefore, it is the union of both which
produces the perfect poet.

Let him direct the shafts of satire against vice, in all its various
forms, but not level them at individuals, like some who, rather than not
indulge their mischievous wit, will hazard a disgraceful banishment to
the Isles of Pontus. If the poet be correct in his morals, his verse
will partake of the same purity: the pen is the tongue of the mind, and
what his conceptions are, such will be his productions. The wise and
virtuous subject who is gifted with a poetic genius is ever honored and
enriched by his sovereign, and crowned with the leaves of the tree which
the thunderbolt hurts not, as a token that all should respect those
brows which are so honorably adorned.


  Forewarned, forearmed; to be prepared is half the victory.

  It is a nobler sight to behold a knight-errant assisting a
  widow in solitude than a courtier-knight complimenting a
  damsel in the city.

  Well I know that fortitude is a virtue placed between the
  two extremes of cowardice and rashness: but it is better the
  valiant should rise to the extreme of temerity than sink to
  that of cowardice, for, as it is easier for the prodigal
  than the miser to become liberal, so it is much easier for
  the rash than the cowardly to become truly brave.


THE ADVENTURE WITH THE LIONS.

Don Quixote, after having wiped his head, face, beard, and helmet, again
put it on, and fixing himself firm in his stirrups, adjusting his sword,
and grasping his lance, he exclaimed, "Now, come what may, I am prepared
to encounter Satan himself!"

They were soon overtaken by the cart with flags, which was attended only
by the driver, who rode upon one of the mules, and a man sitting upon
the fore part of it. Don Quixote planted himself just before them, and
said, "Whither go ye, brethren? What carriage is this? What does it
contain, and what are those banners?"

"The cart is mine," answered the carter, "and in it are two fierce
lions, which the general of Oran is sending to court as a present to his
majesty; the flags belong to our liege the king, to show that what is in
the cart belongs to him."

"And are the lions large?" demanded Don Quixote.

"Larger never came from Africa to Spain," said the man on the front of
the cart; "I am their keeper, and in my time have had charge of many
lions, but never of any so large as these. They are a male and a female;
the male is in the first cage, and the female is in that behind. Not
having eaten to-day, they are now hungry and therefore, sir, stand
aside, for we must make haste to the place where they are to be fed."

"What!" said Don Quixote, with a scornful smile, "lion-whelps against
me! Against me, your puny monsters! and at this time of day! By yon
blessed sun! those who sent them hither shall see whether I am a man to
be scared by lions. Alight, honest friend! and, since you are their
keeper, open the cages and turn out your savages of the desert: for in
the midst of this field will I make them know who Don Quixote de la
Mancha is, in spite of the enchanters that sent them hither to me."

"So, so," quoth the gentleman to himself, "our good knight has now given
us a specimen of what he is; doubtless the curds have softened his
skull, and made his brains mellow."

Sancho now coming up to him, "For Heaven's sake, sir," cried he, "hinder
my master from meddling with these lions; for if he does they will tear
us all to pieces."

"What, then, is your master so mad," answered the gentleman, "that you
really fear he will attack such fierce animals?"

"He is not mad," answered Sancho, "but daring."

"I will make him desist," replied the gentleman; and, going up to Don
Quixote, who was importuning the keeper to open the cages, "Sir," said
he, "Knights-errant should engage in adventures that, at least, afford
some prospect of success, and not such as are altogether desperate; for
the valor which borders on temerity has in it more of madness than
courage. Besides, sir knight, these lions do not come to assail you:
they are going to be presented to his majesty; and it is, therefore,
improper to detain them or retard their journey."

"Sweet sir," answered Don Quixote, "go hence, and mind your decoy
partridge, and your stout ferret, and leave every one to his functions.
This is mine, and I shall see whether these gentlemen lions will come
against me or not." Then, turning to the keeper, he said, "I vow to
Heaven, Don Rascal, if thou dost not instantly open the cages, with this
lance I will pin thee to the cart."

The carter seeing that the armed lunatic was resolute, "Good sir," said
he, "for charity's sake, be pleased to let me take off my mules and get
with them out of danger, before the lions are let loose: for should my
cattle be killed, I am undone for ever, as I have no other means of
living than by this cart and these mules."

"Incredulous wretch!" cried Don Quixote, "unyoke and do as thou wilt;
but thou shalt soon see that thy trouble might have been spared."

The carter alighted and unyoked in great haste. The keeper then said
aloud, "Bear witness, all here present, that against my will, and by
compulsion, I open the cages and let the lions loose. I protest against
what this gentleman is doing, and declare all the mischief done by these
beasts shall be placed to his account, with my salary and perquisites
over and above. Pray, gentlemen, take care of yourselves before I open
the door; for, as to myself, I am sure they will do me no hurt."

Again the gentleman pressed Don Quixote to desist from so mad an action;
declaring to him that he was thereby provoking God's wrath. Don Quixote
replied that he knew what he was doing. The gentleman rejoined, and
entreated him to consider well of it, for he was certainly deceived.

"Nay, sir," replied Don Quixote, "if you will not be a spectator of what
you think will prove a tragedy, spur your flea-bitten, and save
yourself."

Sancho, too, besought him, with tears in his eyes, to desist from an
enterprise compared with which that of the windmills, the dreadful one
of the fulling-mills, and in short, all the exploits he had performed in
the whole course of his life, were mere tarts and cheesecakes.
"Consider, sir," added Sancho, "here is no enchantment, nor anything
like it; for I saw, through the grates and chinks of the cage, the paw
of a true lion; and I guess, by the size of its claw, that it is bigger
than a mountain."

"Thy fears," answered Don Quixote, "would make it appear to thee larger
than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I perish here,
thou knowest our old agreement: repair to Dulcinea--I say no more." To
these he added other expressions, which showed the firmness of his
purpose, and that all argument would be fruitless. The gentleman would
fain have compelled him to desist, but thought himself unequally matched
in weapons and armor, and that it Would not be prudent to engage with a
madman, whose violence and menaces against the keeper were now
redoubled; the gentleman therefore spurred his mare, Sancho his Dapple,
and the carter his mules, and all endeavored to get as far off as
possible from the cart, before the lions were let loose. Sancho bewailed
the death of his master; verily believing it would now overtake him
between the paws of the lions; he cursed his hard fortune, and the
unlucky hour when he again entered into his service. But,
notwithstanding his tears and lamentations, he kept urging on his Dapple
to get far enough from the cart. The keeper, seeing that the fugitives
were at a good distance, repeated his arguments and entreaties, but to
no purpose: Don Quixote answered that he heard him, and desired he would
trouble himself no more, but immediately obey his commands, and open the
door.

Whilst the keeper was unbarring the first gate, Don Quixote deliberated
within himself whether it would be best to engage on horseback or not,
and finally determined it should be on foot, as Rozinante might be
terrified at the sight of the lions. He therefore leaped from his horse,
flung aside his lance, braced on his shield, and drew his sword; and
marching slowly, with marvellous intrepidity and an undaunted heart, he
planted himself before the car, devoutly commending himself, first to
God and then to his mistress Dulcinea.

Here it is to be noted that the author of this faithful history, coming
to this passage, falls into exclamations, and cries out, O strenuous and
beyond all expression courageous Don Quixote de la Mancha! thou mirror
wherein all the valiant ones of the world may behold themselves, thou
second and new Don Manuel de Leon, who was the glory and honor of the
Spanish knights! With what words shall I relate this tremendous exploit?
By what arguments shall I render it credible to succeeding ages? or what
praises, though above all hyperboles hyperbolical, do not fit and become
thee? Thou, alone, on foot, intrepid and magnanimous, with a single
sword, and that none of the sharpest, with a shield not of the brightest
and most shining steel, standest waiting for and expecting two of the
fiercest lions that the forests of Africa ever bred. Let thy own deeds
praise thee, valorous Manchegan! for here I must leave off for want of
words whereby to enhance them. Here the author ends his exclamation, and
resumes the thread of the history, saying:--

The keeper, seeing Don Quixote fixed in his posture, and that he could
not avoid letting loose the male lion on pain of falling under the
displeasure of the angry and daring knight, set wide open the door of
the first cage, where lay the lion, which appeared to be of an
extraordinary bigness and of a hideous and frightful aspect. The first
thing he did was to turn himself round in the cage, reach out a paw, and
stretch himself at full length. Then he gaped and yawned very leisurely;
then licked the dust off his eyes, and washed his face, with some half a
yard of tongue. This done, he thrust his head out of the cage and stared
round on all sides with eyes of fire-coals,--a sight and aspect enough
to have struck terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote only observed
him with attention, wishing he would leap out from the car and grapple
with him, that he might tear him in pieces, to such a pitch of
extravagance had his unheard-of madness transported him.

But the generous lion, more civil than arrogant, taking no notice of his
vaporing and bravados, after having stared about him, as has been said,
turned his back and showed his posteriors to Don Quixote, and with
great phlegm and calmness laid himself down again in the cage; which Don
Quixote perceiving, he ordered the keeper to give him some blows and
provoke him to come forth.

"That I will not do," answered the keeper; "for, should I provoke him, I
myself shall be the first he will tear in pieces. Be satisfied, signor
cavalier, with what is done, which is all that can be said in point of
courage, and do not tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door
open, and it is in his choice to come forth or not; and since he has not
yet come out, he will not come out all this day. The greatness of your
worship's courage is already sufficiently shown. No brave combatant, as
I take it, is obliged to more than to challenge his foe, and expect him
in the field; and if the antagonist does not meet him, the disgrace
falls on him, while the challenger is entitled to the crown of victory."

"That is true," answered Don Quixote; "shut the door, and give me a
certificate in the best form you can of what you have here seen me
perform. It should be known that you opened the door to the lion; that I
waited for him; that he came not out; again I waited for him; again he
came not out; and again he laid himself down. I am bound to no
more,--enchantments avaunt! So Heaven prosper right and justice and true
chivalry! Shut the door, as I told thee, while I make a signal to the
fugitive and absent, that from your own mouth they may have an account
of this exploit."

The keeper closed the door, and Don Quixote, having fixed the linen
cloth with which he had wiped the curds from his face upon the point of
his lance, began to hail the troop in the distance, who, with the
gentleman in green at their head, were still retiring, but looking round
at every step, when suddenly Sancho observed the signal of the white
cloth.

"May I be hanged," cried he, "if my master has not vanquished the wild
beasts, for he is calling to us!"

They all stopped, and saw that it was Don Quixote that made the sign;
and, their fear in some degree abating, they ventured to return slowly
till they could distinctly hear the words of Don Quixote, who continued
calling to them. When they had reached the cart again, Don Quixote said
to the driver: "Now, friend, put on your mules again, and in Heaven's
name proceed; and, Sancho, give two crowns to him and the keeper, to
make them amends for this delay."

"That I will, with all my heart," answered Sancho; "but what has become
of the lions? are they dead or alive?"

The keeper then very minutely, and with due pauses, gave an account of
the conflict, enlarging, to the best of his skill, on the valor of Don
Quixote, at sight of whom the daunted lion would not, or durst not, stir
out of the cage, though he had held open the door a good while; and,
upon his representing to the knight that it was tempting God to provoke
the lion, and to force him out, he had at length, very reluctantly,
permitted him to close it again.

"What sayest thou to this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote; "can any
enchantment prevail against true courage? Enchanters may, indeed,
deprive me of good fortune, but of courage and resolution they never
can."

Sancho gave the gold crowns; the carter yoked his mules; the keeper
thanked Don Quixote for his present, and promised to relate this
valorous exploit to the king himself when he arrived at court.

"If, perchance, his majesty," said Don Quixote, "should inquire who
performed it, tell him the Knight of the Lions; for henceforward I
resolve that the title I have hitherto borne, of the Knight of the
Sorrowful Figure, shall be thus changed, converted, and altered; and
herein I follow the ancient practice of knights-errant, who changed
their names at pleasure."

It is a gallant sight to see a cavalier in shining armor prancing over
the lists at some gay tournament in sight of the ladies; it is a gallant
sight when, in the middle of a spacious square, a brave cavalier, before
the eyes of his prince, transfixes with his lance a furious bull; and a
gallant show do all those knights make, who, in military or other
exercises, entertain, enliven, and do honor to their prince's court; but
far above all these is the knight-errant, who, through deserts and
solitudes, through cross-ways, through woods, and over mountains, goes
in quest of perilous adventures, which he undertakes and accomplishes
only to obtain a glorious and immortal fame.

All knights have their peculiar functions. Let the courtier serve the
ladies, adorn his prince's court with rich liveries, entertain the
poorer cavaliers at his splendid table, order his jousts, manage
tournaments, and show himself great, liberal, and magnificent; above
all, a good Christian, and thus will he fulfil his duties.

In enterprises of every kind, it is better to lose the game by a card
too much than one too little; for it sounds better to be called rash and
daring than timorous and cowardly.

"Signor Don Diego de Miranda, your father, sir, has informed me of the
rare talents you possess, and particularly that you are a great poet."

"Certainly not a great poet," replied Lorenzo; "it is true I am fond of
poetry, and honor the works of good poets; but I have no claim to the
title my father is pleased to confer upon me."

"I do not dislike this modesty," answered Don Quixote; "for poets are
usually very arrogant, each thinking himself the greatest in the world."

"There is no rule without an exception," answered Don Lorenzo; "and
surely there may be some who do not appear too conscious of their real
merits."

"Very few, I believe," said Don Quixote.


THE SCIENCE OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY.

"It is a science," replied Don Quixote, "which comprehends all, or most
of the other sciences; for he who professes it must be learned in the
law, and understand distributive and commutative justice, that he may
know not only how to assign to each man what is truly his own, but what
is proper for him to possess; he must be conversant in divinity, in
order to be able to explain, clearly and distinctly, the Christian faith
which he professes; he must be skilled in medicine, especially in
botany, that he may know both how to cure the diseases with which he may
be afflicted, and collect the various remedies which Providence has
scattered in the midst of the wilderness, nor be compelled on every
emergency to be running in quest of a physician to heal him; he must be
an astronomer, that he may if necessary ascertain by the stars the exact
hour of the night and what part or climate of the world he is in; he
must understand mathematics, because he will have occasion for them; and
taking it for granted that he must be adorned with all the cardinal and
theological virtues, I descend to other more minute particulars, and say
that he must know how to swim as well as it is reported of Fish
Nicholas;[9] he must know how to shoe a horse and repair his saddle and
bridle: and to return to higher concerns, he must preserve his faith
inviolable towards Heaven, and also to his mistress; he must be chaste
in his thoughts, modest in his words, liberal in good works, valiant in
exploits, patient in toils, charitable to the needy, and steadfastly
adhering to the truth, even at the hazard of his life. Of all these
great and small parts a good knight-errant is composed."


  THE TEXT.

  Could I recall departed joy,
    Though barred the hopes of greater gain,
  Or now the future hours employ
    That must succeed my present pain.


  THE PARAPHRASE.

  All fortune's blessings disappear,
    She's fickle as the wind;
  And now I find her as severe
    As once I thought her kind.
  How soon the fleeting pleasures passed!
  How long the lingering sorrows last!
    Unconstant goddess, in thy haste,
  Do not thy prostrate slave destroy,
    I'd ne'er complain, but bless my fate,
  _Could I recall departed joy._

  Of all thy gifts I beg but this,
    Glut all mankind with more,
  Transport them with redoubled bliss,
    But only mine restore.
  With thought of pleasure once possessed,
  I'm now as cursed as I was blessed:
    Oh, would the charming hours return,
  How pleased I'd live, how free from pain,
    I ne'er would pine, I ne'er would mourn.
  _Though barred the hopes of greater gain._

  But oh, the blessing I implore
    Not fate itself can give!
  Since time elapsed exists no more,
    No power can bid it live.
  Our days soon vanish into naught,
  And have no being but in thought.
    Whate'er began must end at last,
  In vain we twice would youth enjoy,
    In vain would we recall the past,
  _Or now the future hours employ._

  Deceived by hope, and racked by fear,
    No longer life can please;
  I'll then no more its torments bear,
    Since death so soon can ease.
  This hour I'll die--but, let me pause--
  A rising doubt my courage awes.
    Assist, ye powers that rule my fate,
  Alarm my thoughts, my rage restrain,
    Convince my soul there's yet a state
  _That must succeed my present pain._


  O Flattery, how potent is thy sway! How wide the bounds of
  thy pleasing jurisdiction!


_On the story of Pyramus and Thisbe._

  SONNET.

  The nymph who Pyramus with love inspired
  Pierces the wall, with equal passion fired:
  Cupid from distant Cyprus thither flies,
  And views the secret breach with laughing eyes.

  Here silence, vocal, mutual vows conveys,
  And whispering eloquent, their love betrays:
  Though chained by fear, their voices dare not pass,
  Their souls, transmitted through the chink, embrace.

  Ah, woful story of disastrous love!
  Ill-fated haste that did their ruin prove!
  One death, one grave, unite the faithful pair,
  And in one common fame their memories share.


  No parents can see the deformity of their own children, and
  still stronger is this self-deception with respect to the
  offspring of the mind.


At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don Lorenzo: "I know not,"
said he, "whether I have already told your worship, but if I have, let
me now repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to take the
shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible summit of the temple of
fame, you have no more to do, but to leave on one side the path of
poetry, which is pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry,
which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct you to the
throne of empire in the turning of a straw."


Riches are able to solder abundance of flaws.

Every sheep to its like.

Let every goose a gander choose.


AN ACCOUNT OF THE MARRIAGE OF CAMACHO THE RICH; AND ALSO THE ADVENTURE
OF BASILIUS THE POOR.

"Come with us, and you will see one of the greatest and richest weddings
that has ever been celebrated in La Mancha, or for many leagues round."

"The nuptials of some prince, I presume?" said Don Quixote.

"No," replied the scholar, "only that of a farmer and a country maid: he
the wealthiest in this part of the country, and she the most beautiful
that eyes ever beheld. The preparations are very uncommon: for the
wedding is to be celebrated in a meadow near the village where the bride
lives, who is called Quiteria the Fair, and the bridegroom Camacho the
Rich: she is about the age of eighteen, and he twenty-two, both equally
matched, though some nice folks, who have all the pedigrees of the world
in their heads, pretend that the family of Quiteria the Fair has the
advantage over that of Camacho; but that is now little regarded, for
riches are able to solder up abundance of flaws. In short, this same
Camacho is as liberal as a prince; and, intending to be at some cost in
this wedding, has taken it into his head to convert a whole meadow into
a kind of arbor, shading it so that the sun itself will find some
difficulty to visit the green grass beneath. He will also have
morris-dances, both with swords and bells; for there are people in the
village who jingle and clatter them with great dexterity. As to the
number of shoe-clappers[10] invited, it is impossible to count them; but
what will give the greatest interest to this wedding is the effect it
is expected to have on the slighted Basilius.

"This Basilius is a swain of the same village as Quiteria; his house is
next to that of her parents, and separated only by a wall, whence Cupid
took occasion to revive the ancient loves of Pyramus and Thisbe: for
Basilius was in love with Quiteria from his childhood, and she returned
his affection with a thousand modest favors, insomuch that the loves of
the two children, Basilius and Quiteria, became the common talk of the
village. When they were grown up, the father of Quiteria resolved to
forbid Basilius the usual access to his family; and to relieve himself
of all fears on his account, he determined to marry his daughter to the
rich Camacho; not choosing to bestow her on Basilius, whose endowments
are less the gifts of fortune than of nature: in truth he is the most
active youth we know; a great pitcher of the bar, an excellent wrestler,
a great player at cricket, runs like a buck, leaps like a wild goat, and
plays at ninepins as if by witchcraft; sings like a lark, and touches a
guitar delightfully and, above all, he handles a sword like the most
skilful fencer."

It now began to grow dark, and as they approached the village there
appeared before them a new heaven, blazing with innumerable stars. At
the same time they heard the sweet and mingled sounds of various
instruments--such as flutes, tambourines, psalters, cymbals, drums, and
bells; and, drawing still nearer, they perceived a spacious arbor,
formed near the entrance into the town, hung round with lights that
shone undisturbed by the breeze; for it was so calm that not a leaf was
seen to move. The musicians, who are the life and joy of such festivals,
paraded in bands up and down this delightful place, some dancing, others
singing, and others playing upon different instruments: in short,
nothing was there to be seen but mirth and pleasure. Several were
employed in raising scaffolds, from which they might commodiously behold
the shows and entertainments of the following day, that were to be
dedicated to the nuptial ceremony of the rich Camacho and the obsequies
of poor Basilius.

If he is poor he cannot think to wed Quiteria. A pleasant fancy,
forsooth, for a fellow who has not a groat in his pocket to look for a
yoke-mate above the clouds. Faith, sir, in my opinion a poor man should
be contented with what he finds, and not be seeking for truffles at the
bottom of the sea.

The first thing that presented itself to Sancho's sight was a whole
bullock spitted upon a large elm. The fire it was roasted by was
composed of a middling mountain of wood, and round it were placed six
pots, not cast in common moulds; for they were half-jars, each
containing a whole shamble of flesh; and entire sheep were sunk and
swallowed up in them, as commodiously as if they were only so many
pigeons. The hares ready cased, and the fowls ready plucked, that hung
about upon the branches, in order to be buried in the caldrons, were
without number. Infinite was the wild fowl and venison hanging about the
trees, that the air might cool them. Sancho counted above threescore
skins, each of above twenty-four quarts, and all, as appeared
afterwards, full of generous wines.

There were also piles of the whitest bread, arranged like heaps of wheat
on the threshing-floor, and cheeses, piled up in the manner of bricks,
formed a kind of wall. Two caldrons of oil, larger than dyers' vats,
stood ready for frying all sorts of batter-ware; and, with a couple of
stout peels, they shovelled them up when fried, and forthwith immersed
them in a kettle of prepared honey that stood near. The men and women
cooks were about fifty in number, all clean, all active, and all in good
humor. In the bullock's distended belly were sewed up a dozen sucking
pigs, to make it savory and tender. The spices of various kinds, which
seemed to have been bought, not by the pound, but by the hundredweight,
were deposited in a great chest, and open to every hand. In short the
preparation for the wedding was all rustic, but in sufficient abundance
to have feasted an army.

Sancho beheld all with wonder and delight. The first that captivated and
subdued his inclinations were the flesh-pots, out of which he would have
been glad to have filled a moderate pipkin; next the wine-skins drew his
affections; and lastly the products of the frying-pans--if such
capacious vessels might be so called; and, being unable any longer to
abstain, he ventured to approach one of the busy cooks, and in
persuasive and hungry terms begged leave to sop a luncheon of bread in
one of the pots.

To which the cook answered, "This, friend, is not a day for hunger to be
abroad--thanks to rich Camacho. Alight, and look about you for a ladle
to skim out a fowl or two, and much good may they do you."

"I see no ladle," answered Sancho.

"Stay," said the cook. "Heaven save me, what a helpless varlet!" So
saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and sousing it into one of the
half-jars, he fished out three pullets and a couple of geese, and said
to Sancho, "Eat, friend, and make your breakfast of this scum, to stay
your stomach till dinner-time."

"I have nothing to put it in," answered Sancho.

"Then take ladle and all," quoth the cook; "for Camacho's riches and joy
supply everything."

While Sancho was thus employed, Don Quixote stood observing the entrance
of a dozen peasants at one side of the spacious arbor, each mounted on a
beautiful mare, in rich and gay caparisons, hung round with little
bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and in a regular troop made
sundry careers about the meadow, with a joyful Moorish cry of "Long live
Camacho and Quiteria! he as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of
the world!"

Don Quixote hearing this, said to himself, "These people, it is plain,
have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; otherwise they would have been
less extravagant in the praise of their Quiteria."

Soon after there entered, on different sides of the arbor, various sets
of dancers, among which was one consisting of four-and-twenty
sword-dancers; handsome, sprightly swains, all arrayed in fine white
linen, and handkerchiefs wrought with several colors of fine silk. One
of those mounted on horseback inquired of a young man who led the
sword-dance, whether any of his comrades were hurt.

"No," replied the youth; "thank Heaven, as yet we are all well;" and
instantly he twined himself in among his companions with so many turns,
and so dexterously, that though Don Quixote had often seen such dances
before, none had ever pleased him so well. Another dance also delighted
him much, performed by twelve damsels, young and beautiful, all clad in
green stuff of Cuenza, having their hair partly plaited, and partly
flowing, all of golden hue, rivalling the sun itself, and covered with
garlands of jessamine, roses and woodbine. They were led up by a
venerable old man and an ancient matron, to whom the occasion had given
more agility than might have been expected from their years. A Zamora
bagpipe regulated their motions, which being no less sprightly and
graceful than their looks were modest and maidenly, more lovely dancers
were never seen in the world.

A pantomimic dance now succeeded, by eight nymphs, divided into two
ranks--"Cupid" leading the one, and "Interest," the other; the former
equipped with wings, bow, quiver, and arrows; the latter gorgeously
apparelled with rich and variously colored silks, embroidered with gold.
The nymphs in Cupid's band displayed their names, written in large
letters on their backs. "Poetry" was the first: then succeeded
"Discretion," "Good Lineage," and "Valor." The followers of "Interest"
were "Liberality," "Bounty," "Wealth," and "Security." This band was
preceded by a wooden castle, drawn by savages, clad so naturally in ivy
and green cloth, coarse and shaggy, that Sancho was startled. On the
front and sides of the edifice was written, "The Castle of Reserve."
Four skilful musicians played on the tabor and pipe; Cupid began the
dance, and after two movements, he raised his eyes, and bending his bow,
pointed an arrow towards a damsel that stood on the battlements of the
castle; at the same time addressing to her the following verses:--

  CUPID'S ADDRESS.

  I am the god whose power extends
    Through the wide ocean, earth, and sky;
  To my soft sway all nature bends,
    Compelled by beauty to comply.

  Fearless I rule, in calm and storm,
    Indulge my pleasure to the full;
  Things deemed impossible perform,
    Bestow, resume, ordain, annul.

Cupid, having finished his address, shot an arrow over the castle, and
retired to his station; upon which Interest stepped forth, and after two
similar movements, the music ceasing, he said:--

  My power exceeds the might of love,
    For Cupid bows to me alone;
  Of all things framed by heaven above,
    The most respected, sought, and known.

  My name is Interest; mine aid
    But few obtain, though all desire:
  Yet shall thy virtue, beauteous maid,
    My constant services acquire.

Interest then withdrew, and Poetry advanced; and, fixing her eyes on the
damsel of the castle, she said:--

  Let Poetry, whose strain divine
    The wondrous power of song displays,
  Her heart to thee, fair nymph, consign,
    Transported in melodious lays:

  If haply thou wilt not refuse
    To grant my supplicated boon,
  Thy fame shall, wafted by the muse,
    Surmount the circle of the moon.

Poetry having retired from the side of Interest, Liberality advanced;
and, after making her movements, said:--

  My name is Liberality,
    Alike beneficent and wise,
  To shun wild prodigality,
    And sordid avarice despise.
  Yet, for thy favor lavish grown,
    A prodigal I mean to prove;
  An honorable vice I own,
    But giving is the test of love.

In this manner all the figures of the two parties advanced and
retreated, and each made its movements and recited its verses, some
elegant, and some ridiculous of which Don Quixote, who had a very good
memory, treasured up the foregoing only.


The bridal pair proceeded towards a theatre on one side of the arbor,
decorated with tapestry and garlands, where the nuptial ceremony was to
be performed, and whence they were to view the dances and shows
prepared for the occasion. Immediately on their arrival at that place, a
loud noise was heard at a distance, amidst which a voice was
distinguished calling aloud, "Hold a little, rash and thoughtless
people!" On turning their heads they saw that these words were uttered
by a man who was advancing towards them, clad in a black doublet, welted
with flaming crimson. He was crowned with a garland of mournful cypress,
and held in his hand a large truncheon; and, as he drew near, all
recognized the gallant Basilius, and waited in fearful expectation of
some disastrous result from this unseasonable visit.

At length he came up, tired and out of breath, and placed himself just
before the betrothed couple; then, pressing his staff, which was pointed
with steel, into the ground, he fixed his eyes on Quiteria, and in a
broken and tremulous voice thus addressed her: "Ah, false and forgetful
Quiteria, well thou knowest that, by the laws of our holy religion, thou
canst not marry another man whilst I am living; neither art thou
ignorant that, while waiting till time and mine own industry should
improve my fortune, I have never failed in the respect due to thy honor.
But thou hast cast aside every obligation due to my lawful love, and art
going to make another man master of what is mine: a man who is not only
enriched, but rendered eminently happy by his wealth; and, in obedience
to the will of Heaven, the only impediment to his supreme felicity I
will remove, by withdrawing this wretched being. Long live the rich
Camacho with the ungrateful Quiteria! Long and happily may they live,
and let poor Basilius die, who would have risen to good fortune had not
poverty clipped his wings and laid him in an early grave!"

So saying, he plucked his staff from the ground, and, drawing out a
short tuck, to which it had served as a scabbard, he fixed what might be
called the hilt into the ground, and, with a nimble spring and resolute
air, he threw himself on the point, which, instantly appearing at his
back, the poor wretch lay stretched on the ground, pierced through and
through, and weltering in his blood.

His friends, struck with horror and grief, rushed forward to help him,
and Don Quixote, dismounting, hastened also to lend his aid, and taking
the dying man in his arms, found that he was still alive. They would
have drawn out the tuck, but the priest who was present thought that it
should not be done till he had made his confession; as, the moment it
was taken out of his body he would certainly expire. But Basilius, not
having quite lost the power of utterance, in a faint and doleful voice
said: "If, cruel Quiteria, in this my last and fatal agony, thou wouldst
give me thy hand, as my spouse, I should hope my rashness might find
pardon in heaven, since it procured me the blessing of being thine."
Upon which the priest advised him to attend rather to the salvation of
his soul than to his bodily appetites, and seriously implore pardon of
God for his sins, especially for this last desperate action. Basilius
replied that he could not make any confession till Quiteria had given
him her hand in marriage as that would be a solace to his mind, and
enable him to confess his sins.

Don Quixote, hearing the wounded man's request, said, in a loud voice,
that Basilius had made a very just and reasonable request, and,
moreover, a very practicable one; and that it would be equally honorable
for Signor Camacho to take Quiteria, a widow of the brave Basilius, as
if he received her at her father's hand; nothing being required but the
simple word, "Yes," which could be of no consequence, since, in these
espousals, the nuptial bed must be the grave. Camacho heard all this,
and was perplexed and undecided what to do or say; but so much was he
importuned by the friends of Basilius to permit Quiteria to give him her
hand, and thereby save his soul from perdition, that they at length
moved, nay forced him to say that if it pleased Quiteria to give it to
him, he should not object, since it was only delaying for a moment the
accomplishment of his wishes. They all immediately applied to Quiteria,
and, with entreaties, tears, and persuasive arguments, pressed and
importuned her to give her hand to Basilius; but she, harder than
marble, and more immovable than a statue, returned no answer, until the
priest told her that she must decide promptly, as the soul of Basilius
was already between his teeth, and there was no time for hesitation.

Then the beautiful Quiteria, in silence, and to all appearance troubled
and sad, approached Basilius, whose eyes were already turned in his
head, and he breathed short and quick, muttering the name of Quiteria,
and giving tokens of dying more like a heathen than a Christian. At
last Quiteria, kneeling down by him, made signs to him for his hand.
Basilius unclosed his eyes, and fixing them steadfastly upon her, said
"O Quiteria! thou relentest at a time when thy pity is a sword to put a
final period to this wretched life; for now I have not strength to bear
the glory thou conferrest upon me in making me thine, nor will it
suspend the pain which shortly will veil my eyes with the dreadful
shadow of death. What I beg of thee, O fatal star of mine! is that thou
give not thy hand out of compliment, or again to deceive me, but to
declare that thou bestowest it upon me as thy lawful husband, without
any compulsion on thy will--for it would be cruel in this extremity to
deal falsely or impose on him who has been so true to thee."

Here he fainted, and the bystanders thought his soul was just departing.
Quiteria, all modesty and bashfulness, taking Basilius's right hand in
hers, said: "No force would be sufficient to bias my will; and
therefore, with all the freedom I have, I give thee my hand to be thy
lawful wife, and receive thine, if it be as freely given, and if the
anguish caused by thy rash act doth not trouble and prevent thee."

"Yes, I give it thee," answered Basilius, "neither discomposed nor
confused, but with the clearest understanding that Heaven was ever
pleased to bestow on me; and so I give and engage myself to be thy
husband."

"And I to be thy wife," answered Quiteria, "whether thou livest many
years, or art carried from my arms to the grave."

"For one so much wounded," observed Sancho, "this young man talks a
great deal. Advise him to leave off his courtship and mind the business
of his soul; though to my thinking he has it more on his tongue than
between his teeth."

Basilius and Quiteria being thus, with hands joined, the tender-hearted
priest, with tears in his eyes, pronounced the benediction upon them,
and prayed to Heaven for the repose of the bridegroom's soul; who, as
soon as he had received the benediction, suddenly started up, and nimbly
drew out the tuck which was sheathed in his body. All the spectators
were astonished, and some more simple than the rest cried out "A
miracle, a miracle!" But Basilius replied, "no miracle, no miracle, but
a stratagem, a stratagem!"

The priest, astonished and confounded, ran to feel, with both his hands,
the wound, and found that the sword had passed, not through Basilius's
flesh and ribs, but through a hollow iron pipe, cunningly fitted to the
place, and filled with blood, so prepared as not to congeal. In short,
the priests, Camacho, and the rest of the spectators, found they were
imposed upon, and completely duped. The bride showed no signs of regret
at the artifice: on the contrary, hearing it said the marriage, as being
fraudulent, was not valid, she said that she confirmed it anew; it was,
therefore, generally supposed that the matter had been concerted with
the privity and concurrence of both parties; which so enraged Camacho
and his friends that they immediately had recourse to vengeance, and
unsheathing abundance of swords they fell upon Basilius, in whose
behalf as many more were instantly drawn, and Don Quixote, leading the
van on horseback, his lance upon his arm, and well covered with his
shield, made them all give way.

Don Quixote cried aloud, "Hold, sirs, hold! It is not right to avenge
the injuries committed against us by love. Remember that the arts of
warfare and courtship are in some points alike; in war, stratagems are
lawful, so likewise are they in the conflicts and rivalships of love, if
the means employed be not dishonorable. Quiteria and Basilius were
destined for each other by the just and favoring will of Heaven. Camacho
is rich, and may purchase his pleasure when, where and how he pleases.
Basilius has but this one ewe-lamb; and no one, however powerful, has a
right to take it from him; for those whom God hath joined let no man
sunder, and whoever shall attempt it must first pass the point of this
lance." Then he brandished it with such vigor and dexterity that he
struck terror into all those who did not know him.

Quiteria's disdain made such an impression upon Camacho, that he
instantly banished her from his heart. The persuasions, therefore, of
the priest, who was a prudent, well-meaning man, had their effect;
Camacho and his party sheathed their weapons and remained satisfied,
blaming rather the fickleness of Quiteria than the cunning of Basilius.
With much reason Camacho thought within himself that if Quiteria loved
Basilius when a virgin, she would love him also when married, and that
he had more cause to thank Heaven for so fortunate an escape than to
repine at the loss he had sustained. The disappointed bridegroom and
his followers, being thus consoled and appeased, those of Basilius were
so likewise; and the rich Camacho, to show that his mind was free from
resentment, would have the diversions and entertainments go on as if
they had been really married. The happy pair, however, not choosing to
share in them, retired to their own dwelling, accompanied by their
joyful adherents; for, if the rich man can draw after him attendants and
flatterers, the poor man who is virtuous and deserving is followed by
friends who honor and support him.

Don Quixote joined the party of Basilius, having been invited by them as
a person of worth and bravery; while Sancho, finding it impossible to
remain and share the relishing delights of Camacho's festival, which
continued till night, with a heavy heart accompanied his master, leaving
behind the flesh-pots of Egypt, the skimmings of which, though now
almost consumed, still reminded him of the glorious abundance he had
lost.

"If love only were to be considered," said Don Quixote, "parents would
no longer have the privilege of judiciously matching their children.
Were daughters left to choose for themselves, there are those who would
prefer their father's serving-man, or throw themselves away on some
fellow they might chance to see in the street, mistaking, perhaps, an
impostor and swaggering poltroon for a gentleman, since passion too
easily blinds the understanding, so indispensably necessary in deciding
on that most important point, matrimony, which is peculiarly exposed to
the danger of a mistake, and therefore needs all the caution that human
prudence can supply, aided by the particular favor of Heaven. A person
who proposes to take a long journey, if he is prudent, before he sets
forward will look out for some safe and agreeable companion; and should
not he who undertakes a journey for life use the same precaution,
especially as his fellow-traveller is to be his companion at bed and
board and in all other situations? The wife is not a commodity which,
when once bought, you can exchange or return; the marriage bargain, once
struck, is irrevocable. It is a noose which, once thrown about the neck,
turns to a Gordian knot, and cannot be unloosed till cut asunder by the
scythe of death."


  By the streets of "by-and-by" one arrives at the house of
  "never."

  God who gives the wound sends the cure.

  Nobody knows what is to come. A great many hours come in
  between this and to-morrow; and in one hour, yea, in one
  minute, down falls the house. I have seen rain and sunshine
  at the same moment. A man may go to bed well at night and
  not be able to stir next morning: and tell me who can boast
  of having driven a nail in fortune's wheel?

  Between the yes and no of a woman I would not undertake to
  thrust the point of a pin.

"Love, as I have heard say, wears spectacles, through which copper looks
like gold, rags like rich apparel, and specks in the eye like pearls."

"A curse on thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "what wouldst thou be at?
When once thy stringing of proverbs begins, Judas alone--I wish he had
thee!--can have patience to the end. Tell me, animal! what knowest thou
of nails and wheels, or of anything else?"

"Oh, if I am not understood," replied Sancho, "no wonder that what I say
passes for nonsense. But no matter for that,--I understand myself.
Neither have I said many foolish things, only your worship is such a
cricket."

"Critic, not cricket, fool! thou corrupter of good language!" said the
knight.

"Pray, sir, do not be so sharp upon me," answered Sancho, "for I was not
bred at court nor studied in Salamanca, to know whether my words have a
letter short or one too many. As Heaven shall save me, it is
unreasonable to expect that beggarly Sayagnes should talk like Toledans;
nay, even some of them are not over-nicely spoken."

  Purity, propriety, and elegance of style will always be
  found among polite, well-bred, and sensible men.

  I have heard it said of your fencers that they can thrust
  you the point of a sword through the eye of a needle.

O happy thou above all that live on the face of the earth, who, neither
envying nor envied, canst take thy needful rest with tranquillity of
soul, neither persecuted by enchanters nor affrighted by their
machinations! Sleep on! a hundred times I say, sleep on! No jealousies
on thy lady's account keep thee in perpetual watchings, nor do anxious
thoughts of debts unpaid awake thee; nor care how on the morrow thou and
thy little straitened family shall be provided for. Ambition disquiets
thee not, nor does the vain pomp of the world disturb thee; for thy
chief concern is the care of thy ass, since to me is committed the
comfort and protection of thine own person,--a burden imposed on the
master by nature and custom. The servant sleeps, and the master lies
awake considering how he is to maintain, assist, and do him kindness.
The pain of seeing the heavens obdurate in withholding the moisture
necessary to refresh the earth touches only the master, who is bound to
provide in times of sterility and famine for those who served him in the
season of fertility and abundance.


  So much thou art worth as thou hast, and so much thou hast
  as thou art worth.

  There are only two families in the world,--the have
  somethings and the have nothings. Nowadays we are apt to
  feel more often the pulse of property than of wisdom.

  An ass with golden trappings makes a better appearance than
  a horse with a pack-saddle.


"That ought not to be called deception which aims at a virtuous end,"
said Don Quixote; "and no end is more excellent than the marriage of
true lovers; though love," added he, "has its enemies, and none greater
than hunger and poverty, for love is all gayety, joy, and content."


SANCHO PANZA ON DEATH.

"In good sooth, signor," said the squire, "there is no trusting to Mrs.
Ghostly, I mean Death, who gobbles up the gosling as well as the goose;
and, as I have heard our curate observe, tramples down the lofty turrets
of the prince as well as the lowly cottage of the swain. That same lady,
who is more powerful than coy, knows not what it is to be dainty and
squeamish; but eats of everything, and crams her wallet with people of
all nations, degrees, and conditions; she is none of your laborers that
take their afternoon's nap, but mows at all hours, cutting down the dry
stubble as well as the green grass; nor does she seem to chew, but
rather swallows and devours everything that falls in her way; for she is
gnawed by a dog's hunger that is never satisfied; and though she has no
belly, plainly shows herself dropsical, and so thirsty as to drink up
the lives of all the people upon earth, just as one would swallow a
draught of cool water."

"Enough, friend Sancho," cried the knight, interrupting him in this
place; "keep thyself well, now thou art in order, and beware of
stumbling again; for really a good preacher could not speak more to the
purpose than thou hast spoken upon Death, in thy rustic manner of
expression; I say unto thee, Sancho, if thy discretion were equal to thy
natural parts, thou mightest ascend the pulpit, and go about teaching
and preaching to admiration."

"He is a good preacher who is a good liver," answered Panza, "and that
is all the divinity I know."

"And that is sufficient," said the knight; "yet I shall never understand
or comprehend, as the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, how thou,
who art more afraid of a lizard than of thy Maker, should be so wise?"

"Signor," replied Sancho, "I desire your worship would determine in your
own affairs of chivalry, without taking the trouble to judge of other
people's valor or fears; for my own part, I am as pretty a fearer of God
as one would desire to see in any neighbor's child; wherefore, I beseech
your worship, let me discuss this same scum; for everything else is idle
chat, of which we shall be able to give a bad account in the other
world."

"The poor man of honor (if a poor man can deserve that title) possesses,
in a beautiful wife, a jewel; and when that is taken away, he is
deprived of his honor, which is murdered; a beautiful and chaste woman,
whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned with laurel and palms of
triumph; for beauty alone attracts the inclinations of those who behold
it; just as the royal eagle and soaring hawk stoop to the savory lure;
but if that beauty is incumbered by poverty and want, it is likewise
attacked by ravens, kites, and other birds of prey; and if she who
possesses it firmly withstands all these assaults, she well deserves to
be called the crown of her husband.

"Take notice, dearest Basilius," added the knight, "it was the opinion
of a certain sage, that there was but one good wife in the whole world;
and he advised every husband to believe she had fallen to his share, and
accordingly be satisfied with his lot. I myself am not married, nor
hitherto have I entertained the least thought of changing my condition;
nevertheless, I will venture to advise him who asks my advice, in such a
manner, that he may find a woman to his wish; in the first place, I
would exhort him to pay more regard to reputation than to fortune; for a
virtuous woman does not acquire a good name merely by being virtuous;
she must likewise maintain the exteriors of deportment, for the honor of
the sex suffers much more from levity and freedom of behavior in public,
than from any private misdeeds. If thou bringest a good woman to thy
house, it will be an easy task to preserve and even improve her virtue;
but, shouldst thou choose a wife of a different character, it will cost
thee abundance of pains to mend her; for it is not very practicable to
pass from one extreme to another; I do not say it is altogether
impossible, though I hold it for a matter of much difficulty."


  The ox that is loose is best licked.


Sancho, who had been attentive to the student's discourse, said: "Tell
me, sir--so may heaven send you good luck with your books--can you
resolve me--but I know you can, since you know every thing--who was the
first man that scratched his head? I for my part am of opinion it must
have been our father Adam."

"Certainly," answered the scholar; "for there is no doubt but Adam had a
head and hair; and, this being granted, he, being the first man in the
world, must needs have been the first who scratched his head."

"That is what I think," said Sancho; "but tell me now, who was the first
tumbler in the world?"

"Truly, brother," answered the scholar, "I cannot determine that point
till I have given it some consideration, which I will surely do when I
return to my books, and will satisfy you when we see each other again,
for I hope this will not be the last time."

"Look ye, sir," replied Sancho, "be at no trouble about the matter, for
I have already hit upon the answer to my question. Know, then, that the
first tumbler was Lucifer, when he was cast or thrown headlong from
heaven, and came tumbling down to the lowest abyss."

"Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, "thou hast said more than thou art aware
of; for some there are who bestow much labor in examining and explaining
things which when known are not worth recollecting."


  I am thoroughly satisfied that all the pleasures of this
  life pass away like a shadow or dream, or fade like a flower
  of the field.

  Patience, and shuffle the cards.

  We are all bound to respect the aged.

  Tell me thy company and I will tell thee what thou art.

  Whatever is uncommon appears impossible.


THE BRAYING ALDERMEN.

"You must know, gentlemen, that in a town four leagues and a half from
this place, a certain alderman happened to lose his ass, all through the
artful contrivance (too long to be told) of a wench his maid-servant;
and though he tried every means to recover his beast, it was to no
purpose. Fifteen days passed, as public fame reports, after the ass was
missing, and while the unlucky alderman was standing in the
market-place, another alderman of the same town came up to him, and
said, 'Pay me for my good news, gossip, for your ass has made its
appearance.'

"'Most willingly, neighbor,' answered the other; 'but tell me--where has
he been seen?'

"'On the mountain,' answered the other; 'I saw him there this morning,
with no panel or furniture upon him of any kind, and so lank that it was
grievous to behold him. I would have driven him before me and brought
him to you, but he is already become so shy that when I went near him he
took to his heels and fled to a distance from me. Now, if you like it we
will both go seek him; but first let me put up this of mine at home, and
I will return instantly.'

"'You will do me a great favor,' said the owner of the lost ass, 'and I
shall be happy at any time to do as much for you.'

"In short the two aldermen, hand in hand and side by side, trudged
together up the hill; and on coming to the place where they expected to
find the ass, they found him not, nor was he anywhere to be seen, though
they made diligent search. Being thus disappointed, the alderman who had
seen him said to the other, 'Hark you, friend, I have thought of a
stratagem by which we shall certainly discover this animal, even though
he had crept into the bowels of the earth, instead of the mountain; and
it is this: I can bray marvellously well, and if you can do a little in
that way the business is done.'

"'A little, say you, neighbor?' quoth the other, 'before Heaven, in
braying I yield to none--no, not to asses themselves.'

"'We shall soon see that,' answered the second alderman; 'go you on one
side of the mountain, while I take the other, and let us walk round it,
and every now and then you shall bray, and I will bray; and the ass will
certainly hear and answer us, if he still remains in these parts.'
'Verily, neighbor, your device is excellent, and worthy your good
parts,' said the owner of the ass.

"They then separated, according to agreement, and both began braying at
the same instant, with such marvellous truth of imitation that, mutually
deceived, each ran towards the other, not doubting but that the ass was
found; and, on meeting, the loser said, 'Is it possible, friend, that it
was not my ass that brayed?'

"'No, it was I,' answered the other.

"'I declare, then,' said the owner, 'that, as far as regards braying,
there is not the least difference between you and an ass; for in my life
I never heard anything more natural.'

"'These praises and compliments,' answered the author of the stratagem,
'belong rather to you than to me, friend; for by Him that made me, you
could give the odds of two brays to the greatest and most skilful brayer
in the world; for your tones are rich, your time correct, your notes
well sustained, and cadences abrupt and beautiful; in short, I own
myself vanquished, and yield to you the palm in this rare talent.'

"'Truly,' answered the ass owner, 'I shall value and esteem myself the
more henceforth, since I am not without some endowment. It is true, I
fancy that I brayed indifferently well, yet never flattered myself that
I excelled so much as you are pleased to say.'

"'I tell you,' answered the second, 'there are rare abilities often lost
to the world, and they are ill-bestowed on those who know not how to
employ them to advantage.'

"'Right, brother,' quoth the owner, 'though, except in cases like the
present, ours may not turn to much account; and even in this business,
Heaven grant it may prove of service.'

"This said, they separated again, to resume their braying; and each time
were deceived as before, and met again, till they at length agreed, as a
signal, to distinguish their own voices from that of the ass, that they
should bray twice together, one immediately after the other. Thus,
doubling their brayings, they made the tour of the whole mountain,
without having any answer from the stray ass, not even by signs. How,
indeed, could the poor creature answer, whom at last they found in a
thicket, half devoured by wolves? On seeing the body, the owner said,
'Truly, I wondered at his silence; for, had he not been dead, he
certainly would have answered us, or he were no true ass; nevertheless,
neighbor, though I have found him dead, my trouble in the search has
been well repaid in listening to your exquisite braying.'

"'It is in good hands, friend,' answered the other; 'for if the abbot
sings well, the novice comes not far behind him.'

"Hereupon they returned home hoarse and disconsolate, and told their
friends and neighbors all that had happened to them in their search
after the ass; each of them extolling the other for his excellence in
braying. The story spread all over the adjacent villages, and the devil,
who sleeps not, as he loves to sow discord wherever he can, raising a
bustle in the wind, and mischief out of nothing, so ordered it that all
the neighboring villagers, at the sight of any of our towns-people,
would immediately begin to bray, as it were hitting us in the teeth with
the notable talent of our aldermen. The boys fell to it, which was the
same as falling into the hands and mouths of a legion of devils; and
thus braying spread far and wide, insomuch that the natives of the town
of Bray are as well known and distinguished as the negroes are from
white men. And this unhappy jest has been carried so far that our people
have often sallied out in arms against their scoffers, and given them
battle: neither king nor rook, nor fear nor shame, being able to
restrain them. Tomorrow, I believe, or next day, those of our town will
take the field against the people of another village about two leagues
from us, being one of those which persecute us most: and I have brought
the lances and halberds which you saw, that we may be well prepared for
them."


  The hypocrite who cloaks his knavery is less dangerous to
  the commonwealth than he who transgresses in the face of
  day.

  He who only wears the garb of piety does less harm than the
  professed sinner.

  I had rather serve the king in his wars abroad, than be the
  lackey of any beggarly courtier at home.

  There is nothing more honorable, next to the service which
  you owe to God, than to serve your king and natural lord,
  especially in the profession of arms, which, if less
  profitable than learning, far exceeds it in glory. More
  great families, it is true, have been established by
  learning, yet there is in the martial character a certain
  splendor, which seems to exalt it far above all other
  pursuits. But allow me, sir, to offer you a piece of advice,
  which, believe me, you will find worth your attention. Never
  suffer your mind to dwell on the adverse events of your
  life; for the worst that can befall you is death, and when
  attended with honor there is no event so glorious. Julius
  Cæsar, that valorous Roman, being asked which was the kind
  of death to be preferred, "That," said he, "which is sudden
  and unforeseen!"

  Though he answered like a heathen, who knew not the true
  God, yet, considering human infirmity, it was well said.
  For, supposing you should be cut off in the very first
  encounter, either by cannon-shot or the springing of a mine,
  what does it signify? it is but dying, which is inevitable,
  and, being over, there it ends. Terence observes that the
  corpse of a man who is slain in battle looks better than the
  living soldier who has saved himself by flight; and the good
  soldier rises in estimation according to the measure of his
  obedience to those who command him. Observe, moreover, my
  son, that a soldier had better smell of gunpowder than of
  musk; and if old age overtakes you in this noble profession,
  though lame and maimed, and covered with wounds, it will
  find you also covered with honor; and of such honor as
  poverty itself cannot deprive you. From poverty, indeed, you
  are secure; for care is now taken that veteran and disabled
  soldiers shall not be exposed to want, nor be treated as
  many do their negro slaves, when old and past service,
  turning them out of their houses, and, under pretence of
  giving them freedom, leave them slaves to hunger, from which
  they can have no relief but in death.

  There are often rare abilities lost to the world that are
  but ill-bestowed on those who do not know how to employ them
  to advantage.

  Who reads and travels much, sees and learns much.

  It is the prerogative of God alone to truly comprehend all
  things. To Him there is nothing past or future. Everything
  is present.

  There is nothing that Time, the discoverer of all things,
  will not bring to light, even though it be hidden in the
  bowels of the earth.

  Length begets loathing.

  Heaven is merciful, and sends relief in the greatest
  distress.

  Affectation is the devil.

  Heaven help every one to what is their just due, but let us
  have plain dealing.

  When choler once is born,
  The tongue all curb doth scorn.

  When a brave man flies, he must have discovered foul play.

  To retire is not to fly. The valor which has not prudence
  for its basis is termed rashness, and the successful
  exploits of the rash are rather to be ascribed to good
  fortune than to courage.

  Other men's pains are easily borne.

  He who errs and mends, Himself to Heaven commends.

  Those who sin and kiss the rod, Find favor in the sight of
  God.

  If you obey the commands of your lord, You may sit as a
  guest at his board.

  In this world there is nothing but plots and counter-plots,
  mines and countermines.

  A good paymaster needs no surety; and where there is plenty,
  dinner is soon dressed.

  Often the hare starts where she is least expected.

  I have heard it said that the power called Nature is like a
  potter, who, if he can make one beautiful vessel, can in
  like manner make two, three, ay, and a hundred.

  Wit and gay conceits proceed not from dull heads.

  Every man must speak of his wants wherever he may be.

  Modesty is as becoming a knight-errant as courage.

  The master is respected in proportion to the discretion and
  good breeding of his servants.

  Who sets up for a talker and a wit, sinks at the first trip
  into a contemptible buffoon.

  The weapons of gownsmen, like those of women, are their
  tongues.

  Keep company with the good, and you will be one of them.

  Not where you were born, but where you were bred.

  Well sheltered shall he be
  Who leans against a sturdy tree.

  An affront must come from a person who not only gives it,
  but who can maintain it when it is given; an injury may come
  from any hand.

  He who can receive no affront can give none.

  One must live long to see much.

  He who lives long; must suffer much.

  To deprive a knight-errant of his mistress is to rob him of
  the eyes with which he sees, the sun by which he is
  enlightened, and the support by which he is maintained. I
  have many times said, and now I repeat the observation, that
  a knight-errant without a mistress is like a tree without
  leaves, a building without cement, and a shadow without the
  substance by which it is produced.

  Possessing beauty without blemish, dignity without pride,
  love with modesty, politeness springing from courtesy, and
  courtesy from good breeding, and, finally, of illustrious
  descent: for the beauty that is of a noble race shines with
  more splendor than that which is meanly born.

  Virtue ennobles blood, and a virtuous person of humble birth
  is more estimable than a vicious person of rank.

  I must inform your graces that Sancho Panza is one of the
  most pleasant squires that ever served a knight-errant.
  Sometimes his simplicity is so arch, that to consider
  whether he is more fool or wag yields abundance of pleasure.
  He has roguery enough to pass for a knave, and absurdities
  sufficient to confirm him a fool. He doubts everything and
  believes everything; and often, when I think he is going to
  discharge nonsense, he will utter apothegms that will raise
  him to the skies. In a word, I would not exchange him for
  any other squire, even with a city to boot; and therefore I
  am in doubt whether or not it will be expedient to send him
  to that government which your grace has been so good as to
  bestow upon him, although I can perceive in him a certain
  aptitude for such an office; so that, when his understanding
  is a very little polished, he will agree with any
  government, like the king with his customs; for we know by
  repeated experience that great talents and learning are not
  necessary in a governor, as there are a hundred at least who
  govern like gerfalcons, though they can hardly read their
  mother tongue. Provided their intention is righteous and
  their desire to do justice, they will never want counsellors
  to direct them in every transaction, like your military
  governors, who being illiterate themselves, never decide
  without the advice of an assessor. I shall advise him
  corruption to eschew, but never quit his due, and inculcate
  some other small matters that are in my head, which, in
  process of time, may redound to his own interest as well as
  to the advantage of the island under his command.

  The customs of countries, or of great men's houses, are good
  as far as they are agreeable.

"Faith, madam," quoth Sancho, "that same scruple is an honest scruple,
and need not speak in a whisper, but plain out, or as it lists; for I
know it says true, and had I been wise, I should long since have left my
master but such is my lot, or such my evil-errantry, I cannot help
it,--follow him I must. We are both of the same town; I have eaten his
bread; I love him, and he returns my love; he gave me his ass-colts.
Above all, I am faithful, so that nothing in the world, can part us but
the sexton's spade and shovel; and if your highness does not choose to
give me the government you promised, God made me without it, and perhaps
it may be all the better for my conscience if I do not get it; for fool
as I am, I understand the proverb, 'The pismire had wings to her
sorrow;' and perhaps it may be easier for Sancho the squire to get to
heaven than for Sancho the governor. They make as good bread here as in
France, and by night all cats are gray. Unhappy is he who has not
breakfasted at three, and no stomach is a span bigger than another, and
may be filled as they say, with straw or with hay.

"Of the little birds in the air, God himself takes the care; and four
yards of coarse cloth of Cuenza are warmer than as many of fine Segovia
serge; and in travelling from this world to the next, the road is no
wider for the prince than the peasant. The Pope's body takes up no more
room than that of the sexton, though a loftier person, for in the grave
we must pack close together whether we like it or not; so good-night to
all.

"And let me tell you again that if your highness will not give me the
island because I am a fool, I will be wise enough not to care a fig for
it. I have heard say the devil lurks behind the cross; all is not gold
that glitters. From the plough-tail Bamba was raised to the throne of
Spain, and from his riches and revels was Roderigo cast down to be
devoured by serpents, if ancient ballads tell the truth."


  None shall dare the loaf to steal
  From him that sifts and kneads the meal.

  An old dog is not to be coaxed with a crust.

  No man is ever a scholar at his birth, and bishops are made
  of men, not of stones.

  There is a Judge in heaven who knows the heart.

  A good name is better than tons of gold.


"And you, Signor Panza, be quiet and leave the care of making much of
Dapple to me; for being a jewel of Sancho's, I will lay him upon the
apple of my eye."

"Let him lie in the stable, my good lady," answered Sancho, "for upon
the apple of your grandeur's eye neither he nor I are worthy to lie one
single moment,--'slife! they should stick me like a sheep sooner than I
would consent to such a thing; for though my master says that, in
respect to good manners, we should rather lose the game by a card too
much than too little, yet, when the business in hand is about asses and
eyes, we should step warily, with compass in hand."

"Carry him, Sancho," quoth the Duchess, "to your government, and there
you may regale him as you please, and set him free from further labor."

"Think not, my lady Duchess," quoth Sancho, "that you have said much,
for I have seen more asses than one go to governments, and therefore, if
I should carry mine, it would be nothing new."


SANCHO'S PLIGHT.

The Duke and Duchess were extremely diverted with the humors of their
two guests; and resolving to improve their sport by practising some
pleasantries that should have the appearance of a romantic adventure,
they contrived to dress up a very choice entertainment from Don
Quixote's account of the Cave of Montesinos, taking that subject
because the Duchess had observed with astonishment that Sancho now
believed his lady Dulcinea was really enchanted, although he himself had
been her sole enchanter! Accordingly, after the servants had been well
instructed as to their deportment towards Don Quixote, a boar-hunt was
proposed, and it was determined to set out in five or six days with a
princely train of huntsmen. The knight was presented with a hunting suit
proper for the occasion, which, however, he declined, saying that he
must soon return to the severe duties of his profession, when, having no
sumpters nor wardrobes, such things would be superfluous. But Sancho
readily accepted a suit of fine green cloth which was offered to him,
intending to sell it the first opportunity.

The appointed day being come, Don Quixote armed himself, and Sancho in
his new suit mounted Dapple (which he preferred to a horse that was
offered him) and joined the troop of hunters. The Duchess issued forth
magnificently attired, and Don Quixote, out of pure politeness, would
hold the reins of the palfrey, though the Duke was unwilling to allow
it. Having arrived at the proposed scene of their diversion, which was
in a wood between two lofty mountains, they posted themselves in places
where the toils were to be pitched; and all the party having taken their
different stations, the sport began with prodigious noise and clamor,
insomuch that between the shouts of the huntsmen, the cry of the hounds,
and the sound of the horns, they could not hear each other.

The Duchess alighted, and with a boar-spear in her hand, took her stand
in a place where she expected the boars would pass. The Duke and Don
Quixote dismounted also, and placed themselves by her side; while Sancho
took his station behind them all, with his Dapple, whom he would not
quit, lest some mischance should befall him. Scarcely had they ranged
themselves in order when a hideous boar of monstrous size rushed out of
cover, pursued by the dogs and hunters, and made directly towards them,
gnashing his teeth and tossing foam with his mouth.

Don Quixote, on seeing him approach, braced his shield, and drawing his
sword, stepped before the rest to meet him. The Duke joined him with his
boar-spear, and the Duchess would have been the foremost had not the
Duke prevented her. Sancho alone stood aghast, and at the sight of the
fierce animal, leaving even his Dapple, ran in terror towards a lofty
oak, in which he hoped to be secure; but his hopes were in vain, for, as
he was struggling to reach the top, and had got half-way up,
unfortunately a branch to which he clung, gave way, and falling with it,
he was caught by the stump of another, and here left suspended in the
air, so that he could neither get up nor down.

Finding himself in this situation, with his new green coat tearing, and
almost in reach of the terrible creature should it chance to come that
way, he began to bawl so loud and to call for help so vehemently, that
all who heard him and did not see him thought verily he was between the
teeth of some wild beast. The tusked boar, however, was soon laid at
length by the numerous spears that were levelled at him from all sides,
at which time Sancho's cries and lamentations reached the ears of Don
Quixote, who, turning round, beheld him hanging from the oak with his
head downwards, and close by him stood Dapple, who never forsook him in
adversity,--indeed, it was remarked by Cid Hamet, that he seldom saw
Sancho Panza without Dapple, or Dapple without Sancho Panza, such was
the amity and cordial love that subsisted between them!

Don Quixote hastened to the assistance of his squire, who was no sooner
released than he began to examine the rent in his hunting suit, which
grieved him to the soul, for he looked upon that suit as a rich
inheritance.

The huge animal they had slain was laid across a sumpter-mule, and after
covering it with branches of rosemary and myrtle, they carried it, as
the spoils of victory, to a large field-tent, erected in the midst of
the wood, where a sumptuous entertainment was prepared, worthy of the
magnificence of the donor. Sancho, showing the wounds of the torn
garments to the Duchess, said: "Had hares or birds been our game, I
should not have had this misfortune. For my part I cannot think what
pleasure there can be in beating about for a monster that, if it reaches
you with a tusk, may be the death of you. There is an old ballad which
says,--

"'May fate of Fabila be thine,
  And make thee food for bears or swine.'"


"That Fabila," said Don Quixote, "was a king of the Goths, who, going to
the chase, was devoured by a bear."

"What I mean," quoth Sancho, "is, that I would not have kings and other
great folks run into such dangers merely for pleasure; and, indeed,
methinks it ought to be none to kill poor beasts that never meant any
harm."

"You are mistaken, Sancho," said the duke, "hunting wild beasts is the
most proper exercise for knights and princes. The chase is an image of
war: there you have stratagems, artifices, and ambuscades to be
employed, in order to overcome your enemy with safety to yourself.
There, too, you are often exposed to the extremes of cold and heat;
idleness and ease are despised; the body acquires health and vigorous
activity: in short, it is an exercise which may be beneficial to many
and injurious to none. Besides, it is not a vulgar amusement, but, like
hawking, is the peculiar sport of the great. Therefore, Sancho, change
your opinion before you become a governor, for then you will find your
account in these diversions."

"Not so, i' faith," replied Sancho, "the good governor and the broken
leg should keep at home. It would be fine, indeed, for people to come
after him about business and find him gadding in the mountains for his
pleasure. At that rate what would become of his government? In good
truth, sir, hunting and such like pastimes are rather for your idle
companions than for governors. The way I mean to divert myself shall be
with brag at Easter and at bowls on Sundays and holidays; as for your
hunting, it befits neither my condition nor conscience."

"Heaven grant you prove as good as you promise," said the duke, "but
saying and doing are often wide apart."

"Be that as it will," replied Sancho, "the good paymaster wants no pawn;
and God's help is better than early rising, and the belly carries the
legs, and not the legs the belly,--I mean that, with the help of Heaven
and a good intention, I warrant I shall govern better than a gos-hawk.
Ay, ay, let them put their fingers in my mouth and try whether or not I
can bite."

"A curse upon thy proverbs," said Don Quixote, "when will the day come
that I shall hear thee utter one coherent sentence without that base
intermixture! Let this blockhead alone, I beseech your excellencies, He
will grind your souls to death, not between two, but two thousand
proverbs, all timed as well and as much to the purpose as I wish God may
grant him health, or me, if I desire to hear them."

"Sancho Panza's proverbs," said the duchess, "though more numerous than
those of the Greek commentator, are equally admirable for their
sententious brevity."

  He who has been a good squire will never be a bad governor.

  A bad cloak often covers a good drinker.

  When a friend drinks one's health, who can be so
  hard-hearted as not to pledge him?

  God's help is better than early rising.

  Flame may give light and bonfires may illuminate, yet we may
  easily be burnt by them; but music is always a sign of
  feasting and merriment.


THE ACCOUNT OF THE METHOD PRESCRIBED TO DON QUIXOTE FOR DISENCHANTING
DULCINEA; WITH OTHER WONDERFUL EVENTS.

As the agreeable music approached, they observed that it attended a
stately triumphal car, drawn by six gray mules covered with white linen,
and upon each of them rode a penitent of light, clothed also in white,
and holding a lighted torch in his hand. The car was more than double
the size of the others which had passed, and twelve penitents were
ranged in order within it, all carrying lighted torches,--a sight which
at once caused surprise and terror. Upon an elevated throne sat a nymph,
covered with a thousand veils of silver tissue, bespangled with
innumerable flowers of gold, so that her dress, if not rich, was gay and
glittering. Over her head was thrown a transparent gauze, so thin that
through its folds might be seen a most beautiful face; and from the
multitude of lights, it was easy to discern that she was young as well
as beautiful, for she was evidently under twenty years of age, though
not less than seventeen. Close by her sat a figure, clad in a
magnificent robe reaching to the feet, having his head covered with a
black veil.

The moment this vast machine arrived opposite to where the duke and
duchess and Don Quixote stood, the attending music ceased, as well as
the harps and lutes within the car. The figure in the gown then stood
up, and throwing open the robe and uncovering his face; displayed the
ghastly countenance of death, looking so terrific that Don Quixote
started, Sancho was struck with terror, and even the duke and duchess
seemed to betray some symptoms of fear. This living Death, standing
erect, in a dull and drowsy tone and with a sleepy articulation, spoke
as follows:--

  THE ENCHANTER'S ERRAND.

  Merlin I am, miscalled the devil's son
  In lying annals, authorized by time;
  Monarch supreme, and great depositary
  Of magic art and Zoroastic skill;
  Rival of envious ages, that would hide
  The glorious deeds of errant cavaliers,
  Favored by me and my peculiar charge.
  Though vile enchanters, still on mischief bent,
  To plague mankind their baleful art employ,
  Merlin's soft nature, ever prone to good,
  His power inclines to bless the human race.

  In Hades' chambers, where my busied ghost
  Was forming spells and mystic characters,
  Dulcinea's voice, peerless Tobosan maid,
  With mournful accents reached my pitying ears;
  I knew her woe, her metamorphosed form,
  From high-born beauty in a palace graced,
  To the loathed features of a cottage wench.
  With sympathizing grief I straight revolved
  The numerous tomes of my detested art,
  And in the hollow of this skeleton
  My soul enclosing, hither am I come,
  To tell the cure of such uncommon ills.

  O glory thou of all that case their limbs
  In polished steel and fenceful adamant!
  Light, beacon, polar star, and glorious guide
  Of all who, starting from the lazy down,
  Banish ignoble sleep for the rude toil
  And hardy exercise of errant arms!
  Spain's boasted pride, La Mancha's matchless knight,
  Whose valiant deeds outstrip pursuing fame!
  Wouldst thou to beauty's pristine state restore
  The enchanted dame, Sancho, thy faithful squire,
  Must to his brawny buttocks, bare exposed,
  Three thousand and three hundred stripes apply,
  Such as may sting and give him smarting pain:
  The authors of her change have thus decreed,
  And this is Merlin's errand from the shades.

THE PARLEY ABOUT THE PENANCE.

"What!" quoth Sancho, "three thousand lashes! Odd's-flesh! I will as
soon give myself three stabs as three single lashes, much less three
thousand! The devil take this way of disenchanting! I cannot see what my
buttocks have to do with enchantments. Before Heaven! if Signor Merlin
can find out no other way to disenchant the lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
enchanted she may go to her grave for me!"

"Not lash thyself! thou garlic-eating wretch!" quoth Don Quixote; "I
shall take thee to a tree, and tie thee naked as thou wert born, and
there, not three thousand and three hundred, but six thousand six
hundred lashes will I give thee, and those so well laid on that three
thousand three hundred hard tugs shall not tug them off. So answer me
not a word, scoundrel! for I will tear thy very soul out!"

"It must not be so," said Merlin; "the lashes that honest Sancho is to
receive must not be applied by force, but with his good-will, and at
whatever time he pleases, for no term is fixed; and furthermore, he is
allowed, if he please, to save himself half the trouble of applying so
many lashes, by having half the number laid on by another hand, provided
that hand be somewhat heavier than his own."

"Neither another hand nor my own," quoth Sancho, "no hand, either heavy
or light, shall touch my flesh. Was the lady Dulcinea brought forth by
me that my posteriors must pay for the transgressions of her eyes? My
master, indeed, who is part of her, since at every step he is calling
her his life, his soul, his support and stay,--he it is who ought to
lash himself for her and do all that is needful for her delivery; but
for me to whip myself,--no, I pronounce it!"

No sooner had Sancho thus declared himself than the spangled nymph who
sat by the side of Merlin arose, and throwing aside her veil, discovered
a face of extraordinary beauty; and with a masculine air and no very
amiable voice, addressed herself to Sancho: "O wretched squire, with no
more soul than a pitcher! thou heart of cork and bowels of flint! hadst
thou been required, nose-slitting thief! to throw thyself from some
high tower; hadst thou been desired, enemy of human kind! to eat a dozen
of toads, two dozen of lizards, and three dozen of snakes; hadst thou
been requested to kill thy wife and children with some bloody and sharp
scimitar,--no wonder if thou hadst betrayed some squeamishness; but to
hesitate about three thousand three hundred lashes, which there is not a
wretched school-boy but receives every month, it amazes, stupefies, and
affrights the tender bowels of all who hear it, and even of all who
shall hereafter be told it. Cast, thou marble-hearted wretch!--cast, I
say, those huge goggle eyes upon these lovely balls of mine, that shine
like glittering stars, and thou wilt see them weep, drop by drop, and
stream after stream, making furrows, tracks, and paths down these
beautiful cheeks! Relent, malicious and evil-minded monster! Be moved by
my blooming youth, which, though yet in its teens, is pining and
withering beneath the vile bark of a peasant wench; and if at this
moment I appear otherwise, it is by the special favor of Signor Merlin,
here present, hoping that these charms may soften that iron heart, for
the tears of afflicted beauty turn rocks into cotton and tigers into
lambs. Lash, untamed beast! lash away on that brawny flesh of thine, and
rouse from that base sloth which only inclines thee to eat and eat
again, and restore to me the delicacy of my skin, the sweetness of my
temper, and all the charms of beauty. And if for my sake thou wilt not
be mollified into reasonable compliance, let the anguish of that
miserable knight stir thee to compassion,--thy master, I mean, whose
soul I see sticking crosswise in his throat, not ten inches from his
lips, waiting only thy cruel or kind answer either to fly out of his
mouth or to return joyfully into his bosom."

Don Quixote, here putting his finger to his throat, "Before Heaven!"
said he, "Dulcinea is right, for I here feel my soul sticking in my
throat like the stopper of a crossbow!"

"What say you to that, Sancho?" quoth the duchess.

"I say, madam," answered Sancho, "what I have already said, that as to
the lashes, I pronounce them."

"_Renounce_, you should say, Sancho," quoth the duke, "and not
pronounce."

"Please your grandeur to let me alone," replied Sancho, "for I cannot
stand now to a letter more or less. These lashes so torment me that I
know not what I say or do. But I would fain know one thing from the Lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, and that is, where she learnt her manner of asking
a favor? She comes to desire me to tear my flesh with stripes, and at
the same time lays upon me such a bead-roll of ill names that the devil
may bear them for me. What! does she think my flesh is made of brass? or
that I care a rush whether she is enchanted or not? Where are the
presents she has brought to soften me? Instead of a basket of fine linen
shirts, night-caps, and socks (though I wear none), here is nothing but
abuse. Every one knows that 'the golden load is a burden light;' that
'gifts will make their way through stone walls;' 'pray devoutly and
hammer on stoutly;' and 'one take is worth two I'll give thee's.'
There's his worship my master, too, instead of wheedling and coaxing me
to make myself wool and carded cotton, threatens to tie me naked to a
tree and double the dose of stripes. These tender-hearted gentlefolks
ought to remember, too, that they not only desire to have a squire
whipped, but a governor, making no more of it than saying, 'Drink with
your cherries.' Let them learn,--plague take them!--let them learn how
to ask and entreat, and mind their breeding. All times are not alike,
nor are men always in a humor for all things. At this moment my heart is
ready to burst with grief to see this rent in my jacket, and people come
to desire that I would also tear my flesh, and that, too, of my own good
will. I have just as much mind to the thing as to turn Turk."

"In truth, friend Sancho," said the duke, "if you do not relent and
become softer than a ripe fig, you finger no government. It were good
indeed, that I should send my islanders a cruel flinty-hearted governor;
one who relents not at the tears of afflicted damsels, nor at the
entreaties of wise, awful, and ancient enchanters, and sages. In fine,
Sancho, either you must whip yourself, or let others whip you, or be no
governor."

"My lord," answered Sancho, "may I not be allowed two days to consider
what is best for me to do?"

"No, in no wise," quoth Merlin; "here, at this instant and upon this
spot, the business must be settled: or Dulcinea must return to
Montesinos' cave, and to her former condition of a country wench; or
else in her present form be carried to the Elysian fields, where she
must wait till the number of lashes be fulfilled."

"Come, honest Sancho," quoth the duchess, "be of good cheer, and show
gratitude for the bread you have eaten of your master Don Quixote, whom
we are all bound to serve for his good qualities and his high
chivalries. Say, yes, son, to this whipping bout, and the devil take the
devil, and let the wretched fear; for a good heart breaks bad fortune,
as you well know."

"Hark you, Signor Merlin," quoth Sancho, addressing himself to the sage;
"pray will you tell me one thing--how comes it about that the
devil-courier just now brought a message to my master from Signor
Montesinos, saying that he would be here anon, to give directions about
this disenchantment; and yet we have seen nothing of them all this
while?"

"Pshaw!" replied Merlin, "the devil is an ass and a lying rascal; he was
sent from me and not from Montesinos, who is still in his cave
contriving, or rather awaiting, the end of his enchantment, for the tail
is yet unflayed. If he owes you money, or you have any other business
with him, he shall be forthcoming in a trice, when and where you think
fit; and therefore come to a decision, and consent to this small
penance, from which both your soul and body will receive marvellous
benefit; your soul by an act of charity, and your body by a wholesome
and timely bloodletting."

"How the world swarms with doctors," quoth Sancho, "the very enchanters
seem to be of a trade! Well, since everybody tells me so, though the
thing is out of all reason, I promise to give myself the three thousand
three hundred lashes, upon condition that I may lay them on whenever I
please, without being tied to days or times; and I will endeavor to get
out of debt as soon as I possibly can, that the beauty of my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso may shine forth to all the world; as it seems she is
really beautiful, which I much doubted. Another condition is, that I
will not be bound to draw blood, and if some lashes happen only to
fly-flap, they shall all go into the account. Moreover if I should
mistake in the reckoning, Signor Merlin here, who knows everything,
shall give me notice how many I want or have exceeded."

"As for exceedings, there is no need of keeping account of them,"
answered Merlin; "for when the number is completed, that instant will
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso be disenchanted, and come full of gratitude
in search of good Sancho, to thank and even reward him for the generous
deed. So that no scruples are necessary about surplus and deficiency;
and Heaven forbid that I should allow anybody to be cheated of a single
hair of their head."

"Go to, then, in God's name," quoth Sancho; "I must submit to my ill
fortune: I say I consent to the penance upon the conditions I have
mentioned."

No sooner had Sancho pronounced his consent than the innumerable
instruments poured forth their music, the volleys of musketry were
discharged, while Don Quixote clung about Sancho's neck, giving him, on
his forehead and brawny cheeks, a thousand kisses; the duke and duchess,
and all who were present, likewise testified their satisfaction. The car
now moved on, and in departing the fair Dulcinea bowed her head to the
duke and duchess, and made a low curtesy to Sancho.

By this time the cheerful and joyous dawn began to appear, the flowerets
of the fields expanded their fragrant beauties to the light; and brooks
and streams, in gentle murmurs, ran to pay expecting rivers in their
crystal tribute. The earth rejoiced, the sky was clear, and the air
serene and calm; all, combined and separately, giving manifest tokens
that the day, which followed fast upon Aurora's heels, would be bright
and fair. The duke and duchess, having happily executed their ingenious
project, returned highly gratified to their castle, and determined on
the continuation of fictions which afforded more pleasures than
realities.


SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA.

If I have been finely lashed, I have been finely mounted up: if I have
got a good government, it has cost me many good lashes. This, my dear
Teresa, thou canst not understand at present; another time thou wilt.

Thou must know, Teresa, that I am determined that thou shalt ride in thy
coach, which is somewhat to the purpose, for all other ways of going are
no better than creeping upon all fours, like a cat. Thou shalt be a
governor's wife; see then whether anybody will dare to tread on thy
heels. I here send thee a green hunting-suit which my lady duchess gave
me; fit it up so that it may serve our daughter for a jacket and
petticoat. They say in this country that my master Don Quixote is a
sensible madman and a pleasant fool, and that I am not a whit behind
him. We have been in Montesino's cave, and the sage Merlin, the wizard,
has pitched upon me to disenchant the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who
among you is called Aldonza Lorenzo. When I have given myself three
thousand and three hundred lashes, lacking five, she will be as free
from enchantment as the mother that bore her.

Say nothing of this to anybody; for, bring your affairs into council,
and one will cry it is white, another it is black. A few days hence I
shall go to the government, whither I go with a huge desire to get
money; and I am told it is the same with all new governors. I will first
see how matters stand, and send thee word whether or not thou shalt come
to me.

Dapple is well, and sends thee his hearty service; part with him I will
not, though I were made the great Turk. The duchess, my mistress, kisses
thy hands a thousand times over. Return her two thousand; for, as my
master says, nothing is cheaper than civil words. God has not been
pleased to throw in my way another portmanteau and another hundred
crowns, as once before; but take no heed, my dear Teresa, for he that
has the game in his hand need not mind the loss of a trick,--the
government will make up for all. One thing only troubles me: I am told
if I once try it I shall eat my very fingers after it; and if so, it
will not be much of a bargain, though, indeed, the crippled and maimed
enjoy a petty canonry in the alms they receive; so that, one way or
another, thou art sure to be rich and happy. God send it may be so, as
He easily can, and keep me for thy sake.

Thy husband, the governor,
SANCHO PANZA.
From this Castle, the 20th of July, 1614.


THE KNIGHT REPROVED.

After a thousand courtly compliments mutually interchanged, Don Quixote
advanced towards the table, between the duke and duchess, and, on
preparing to seat themselves, they offered the upper end to Don Quixote,
who would have declined it but for the pressing importunities of the
duke. The ecclesiastic seated himself opposite to the knight, and the
duke and duchess on each side.

Sancho was present all the while, in amazement to see the honor paid by
those great people to his master; and, whilst the numerous entreaties
and ceremonies were passing between the duke and Don Quixote, before he
would sit down at the head of the table, he said: "With your honor's
leave I will tell you a story of what happened in our town about seats."

Don Quixote immediately began to tremble, not doubting that he was going
to say something absurd. Sancho observed him, and, understanding his
looks, he said: "Be not afraid, sir, of my breaking loose or saying
anything that is not pat to the purpose. I have not forgotten the advice
your worship gave me awhile ago about talking much or little, well or
ill."

"I remember nothing, Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "say what thou wilt,
so as thou sayst it quickly."

"What I would say," quoth Sancho, "is very true, for my master, Don
Quixote, who is present, will not suffer me to lie."

"Lie as much as thou wilt for me, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I shall
not hinder thee; but take heed what thou art going to say."

"I have heeded it over and over again, so that it is as safe as if I had
the game in my hand, as you shall presently see."

"Your graces will do well," said Don Quixote, "to order this blockhead
to retire, that you may get rid of his troublesome folly."

"By the life of the duke," quoth the duchess, "Sancho shall not stir a
jot from me. I have a great regard for him, and am assured of his
discretion."

"Many happy years may your holiness live," quoth Sancho, "for the good
opinion you have of me, little as I deserve it. But the tale I would
tell is this--

"A certain gentleman of our town, very rich and of a good family,--for
he was descended from the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married Donna
Mencia de Quinnones, who was daughter to Don Alonzo de Maranon, knight
of the order of St. James, the same that was drowned in the Herradura,
about whom that quarrel happened in our town, in which it was said my
master Don Quixote had a hand, and Tommy the mad-cap, son of Balvastro
the blacksmith, was hurt. Pray, good master of mine, is not all this
true? Speak, I beseech you, that their worships may not take me for some
lying prater."

"As yet," said the ecclesiastic, "I take you rather for a prater than
for a liar; but I know not what I shall next take you for."

"Thou hast produced so many witnesses and so many proofs," said Don
Quixote, "that I cannot but say thou mayst probably be speaking truth;
but, for Heaven's sake, shorten thy story, or it will last these two
days."

"He shall shorten nothing," quoth the duchess; "and to please me, he
shall tell it his own way, although he were not to finish these six
days; and, should it last so long, they would be to me days of delight."

"I must tell you, then," proceeded Sancho, "that this same
gentleman--whom I know as well as I do my right hand from my left, for
it is not a bow-shot from my house to his--invited a husbandman to dine
with him,--a poor man, but mainly honest."

"On, friend," said the chaplain, "for, at the rate you proceed, your
tale will not reach its end till you reach the other world."

"I shall stop," replied Sancho, "before I get half-way thither, if it
please Heaven! This same farmer coming to the house of the gentleman his
inviter--God rest his soul, for he is dead and gone; and, moreover, died
like an angel, as it is said,--for I was not by myself, being at that
time gone a reaping to Tembleque."

"Prithee, son," said the ecclesiastic, "come back quickly from
Tembleque, and stay not to bury the gentleman, unless you are determined
upon more burials. Pray make an end of your tale."

"The business, then," quoth Sancho, "was this, that, they being ready
to sit down to table,--methinks I see them plainer than ever."

The duke and duchess were highly diverted at the impatience of the good
ecclesiastic, and at the length and pauses of Sancho's tale; but Don
Quixote was almost suffocated with rage and vexation.

"I say, then," quoth Sancho, "that, as they were both standing before
the dinner-table, just ready to sit down, the farmer insisted that the
gentleman should take the upper end of the table, and the gentleman as
positively pressed the farmer to take it, saying he ought to be master
in his own house. But the countryman, piquing himself upon his good
breeding, still refused to comply, till the gentleman, losing all
patience, laid both his hands upon the farmer's shoulders, and made him
sit down by main force, saying, 'Sit thee down, clod-pole! for in
whatever place I am seated, that is the upper end to thee.' That is my
tale, and truly I think it comes in here pretty much to the purpose."


  All things are not alike, nor are men always in a humor for
  all things.

  Leave fear to the cowardly.

  A stout heart quails misfortune.

  Letters written in blood cannot be disputed.

  If you seek advice about your own concerns, one will say it
  is white and another will swear it is black.

  Nothing is so reasonable and cheap as good manners.

  He is safe who has good cards to play.

  Avarice bursts the bag, and the covetous governor doeth
  ungoverned justice.

  The law's measure
  Is the king's pleasure.

  The game is as often lost by a card too many as one too few;
  but a word to the wise is sufficient.

  Come, death, with gently-stealing pace,
    And take me unperceived away,
  Nor let me see thy wished-for face,
    Lest joy my fleeting life should stay.

  The tyrant fair whose beauty sent
    The throbbing mischief to my heart,
  The more my anguish to augment,
    Forbids me to reveal the smart.

  When a thing is once begun, it is almost half finished.

  When the heifer you receive,
  Have a halter in your sleeve.

  Delay breeds danger.

  Who sits in the saddle must get up first.

  There is nothing so sweet as to command and be obeyed.

  It is a pleasant thing to govern, even though it be but a
  flock of sheep.


INSTRUCTIONS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE TO SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE WENT TO
HIS GOVERNMENT; WITH OTHER WELL CONSIDERED MATTERS.

The duke and duchess being so well pleased with the afflicted duenna,
were encouraged to proceed with other projects, seeing that there was
nothing too extravagant for the credulity of the knight and squire. The
necessary orders were accordingly issued to their servants and vassals
with regard to their behavior towards Sancho in his government of the
promised island. The day after the flight of Clavileno, the duke bade
Sancho prepare, and get himself in readiness to assume his office, for
his islanders were already wishing for him as for rain in May. Sancho
made a low bow, and said: "Ever since my journey to heaven, when I
looked down and saw the earth so very small, my desire to be a governor
has partly cooled: for what mighty matter is it to command on a spot no
bigger than a grain of mustard-seed; where is the majesty and pomp of
governing half a dozen creatures no bigger than hazel-nuts? If your
lordship will be pleased to offer me some small portion of heaven,
though it be but half a league, I would jump at it sooner than for the
largest island in the world."

"Look you, friend Sancho," answered the duke, "I can give away no part
of heaven, not even a nail's breadth; for God has reserved to Himself
the disposal of such favors: but what it is in my power to give, I give
you with all my heart; and the island I now present to you is ready
made, round and sound, well-proportioned, and above measure fruitful,
and where, by good management, you may yourself, with the riches of the
earth, purchase an inheritance in heaven."

"Well, then," answered Sancho, "let this island be forthcoming, and it
shall go hard with me but I will be such a governor that, in spite of
rogues, heaven will take me in. Nor is it out of covetousness that I
forsake my humble cottage and aspire to greater things, but the desire I
have to taste what it is to be a governor."

"If once you taste it, Sancho," quoth the duke, "you will lick your
fingers after it; so sweet it is to command and be obeyed. And certain I
am, when your master becomes an emperor, of which there is no doubt, as
matters proceed so well, it would be impossible to wrest his power from
him, and his only regret will be that he had it not sooner."

"Faith, sir, you are in the right," quoth Sancho, "it is pleasant to
govern, though it be but a flock of sheep."

"Let me be buried with you, Sancho," replied the duke, "if you know not
something of every thing, and I doubt not you will prove a pearl of a
governor. But enough of this for the present: to-morrow you surely
depart for your island, and this evening you shall be fitted with
suitable apparel and with all things necessary for your appointment."

"Clothe me as you will," said Sancho, "I shall still be Sancho Panza."

"That is true," said the duke; "but the garb should always be suitable
to the office and rank of the wearer: for a lawyer to be habited like a
soldier, or a soldier like a priest, would be preposterous; and you;
Sancho, must be clad partly like a scholar and partly like a soldier;
as, in the office you will hold, arms and learning are united."

"As for learning," replied Sancho, "I have not much of that, for I
hardly know my A B C; but to be a good governor, it will be enough that
I am able to make my Christ-cross; and as to arms, I shall handle such
as are given me till I fall, and so God help me."

"With so good an intention," quoth the duke, "Sancho cannot do wrong."

Here they were joined by Don Quixote, who understanding the subject of
their conversation, and the short space allotted to Sancho to prepare
for his departure, took the squire by the hand, with the duke's
permission, and led him to his apartment, in order to instruct him how
to behave in his office. Having entered the chamber he locked the door,
and obliging Sancho to sit down by him, spoke to this effect, in a grave
and solemn tone:--

"I return infinite thanks to Heaven, friend Sancho, for having ordained
that, before I myself have met with the least success, good fortune hath
gone forth to bid thee welcome. I, who had balanced the remuneration of
thy service in my own prosperity, find myself in the very rudiments of
promotion; while thou, before thy time, and contrary to all the laws of
reasonable progression, findest thy desire accomplished: other people
bribe, solicit, importune, attend levees, entreat, and persevere,
without obtaining their suit; and another comes, who, without knowing
why or wherefore, finds himself in possession of that office to which so
many people laid claim: and here the old saying is aptly introduced, 'A
pound of good luck is worth a ton of merit.' Thou, who, in comparison to
me, art doubtless an ignorant dunce, without rising early or sitting up
late, or, indeed, exerting the least industry: without any pretension
more or less than that of being breathed upon by knight-errantry, seest
thyself created governor of an island as if it was a matter of
moonshine.

"All this I observe, O Sancho, that thou mayst not attribute thy success
to thy own deserts: but give thanks to heaven for having disposed
matters so beneficially in thy behalf, and then make thy acknowledgments
to that grandeur which centres in the profession of knight-errantry. Thy
heart being thus predisposed to believe what I have said, be attentive,
O my son, to me who am thy Cato, thy counsellor, thy north-pole and
guide, to conduct thee into a secure harbor from the tempestuous sea
into which thou art going to be engulfed; for great posts and offices of
state are no other than a profound gulf of confusion.

"In the first place, O my son, you are to fear God: the fear of God is
the beginning of wisdom; and if you are wise you cannot err.

"Secondly, you must always remember who you are, and endeavor to know
yourself,--a study of all others the most difficult. This self-knowledge
will hinder you from blowing yourself up like the frog in order to rival
the size of the ox: if, therefore, you succeed in this learning, the
consideration of thy having been a swineherd will, like the peacock's
ugly feet, be a check upon thy folly and pride."

"I own I once took care of hogs when I was a boy," said Sancho; "but,
after I grew up, I quitted that employment and took care of geese; but I
apprehend that matter is not of great consequence, for all governors are
not descended from the kingly race."

"No, sure," answered the knight; "and, for that reason, those who are
not of noble extraction ought to sweeten the gravity of their function
with mildness and affability: which, being prudently conducted, will
screen them from those malicious murmurs that no station can escape.

"Conceal not the meanness of thy family, nor think it disgraceful to be
descended from peasants; for, when it is seen that thou art not thyself
ashamed, none will endeavor to make thee so; and deem it more
meritorious to be a virtuous humble man than a lofty sinner. Infinite is
the number of those who, born of low extraction, have risen to the
highest dignities both in church and state; and of this truth I could
tire thee with examples.

"If thou takest virtue for the rule of life, and valuest thyself upon
acting in all things conformably thereto, thou wilt have no cause to
envy lords and princes; for blood is inherited, but virtue is a common
property and may be acquired by all. It has, moreover, an intrinsic
worth which blood has not. This being so, if, peradventure, any one of
thy kindred visit thee in thy government, do not slight nor affront him;
but receive, cherish, and make much of him, for in so doing thou wilt
please God, who allows none of His creatures to be despised; and thou
wilt also manifest therein a well-disposed nature.

"If thou takest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those who are
appointed to governments to be long separated from their families),
teach, instruct, and polish her from her natural rudeness; for it often
happens that all the consideration a wise governor can acquire is lost
by an ill-bred and foolish woman.

"If thou shouldst become a widower (an event which is possible), and thy
station entitles thee to a better match, seek not one to serve thee for
a hook and angling-rod, or a friar's hood to receive alms in;[11] for,
believe me, whatever the judge's wife receives, the husband must account
for at the general judgment, and shall be made to pay fourfold for all
that of which he has rendered no account during his life.

"Be not under the dominion of thine own will: it is the vice of the
ignorant, who vainly presume on their own understanding.

"Let the tears of the poor find more compassion, but not more justice,
from thee than the applications of the wealthy.

"Be equally solicitous to sift out the truth amidst the presents and
promises of the rich and the sighs and entreaties of the poor.

"Whenever equity may justly temper the rigor of the law, let not the
whole force of it bear upon the delinquent; for it is better that a
judge should lean on the side of compassion than severity.

"If, perchance, the scales of justice be not correctly balanced, let the
error be imputable to pity, not to gold.

"If, perchance, the cause of thine enemy come before thee, forget thy
injuries, and think only on the merits of the case.

"Let not private affection blind thee in another man's cause; for the
errors thou shalt thereby commit are often without remedy, and at the
expense both of thy reputation and fortune.

"When a beautiful woman comes before thee to demand justice, consider
maturely the nature of her claim, without regarding either her tears or
her sighs, unless thou wouldst expose thy judgment to the danger of
being lost in the one, and thy integrity in the other.

"Revile not with words him whom thou hast to correct with deeds; the
punishment which the unhappy wretch is doomed to suffer is sufficient,
without the addition of abusive language.

"When the criminal stands before thee, recollect the frail and depraved
nature of man, and as much as thou canst, without injustice to the
suffering party, show pity and clemency; for, though the attributes of
God are all equally adorable, yet His mercy is more shining and
attractive in our eyes, and strikes with greater lustre, than His
justice.

"If you observe, and conduct yourself by these rules and precepts,
Sancho, your days will be long upon the face of the earth; your fame
will be eternal, your reward complete, and your felicity unutterable;
your children will be married according to your wish; they and their
descendants will enjoy titles; you shall live in peace and friendship
with all mankind; when your course of life is run, death will overtake
you in a happy and mature old age, and your eyes will be shut by the
tender and delicate hands of your posterity, in the third or fourth
generation.

"The remarks I have hitherto made are documents touching the decoration
of your soul; and now you will listen to the directions I have to give
concerning thy person and deportment."


OF THE SECOND SERIES OF INSTRUCTIONS DON QUIXOTE GAVE TO SANCHO PANZA.

Who that has duly considered Don Quixote's instructions to his squire
would not have taken him for a person of singular intelligence and
discretion? But, in truth, as it has often been said in the progress of
this great history, he raved only on the subject of chivalry; on all
others he manifested a sound and discriminating understanding; wherefore
his judgment and his actions appeared continually at variance. But, in
these second instructions given to Sancho, which showed much ingenuity,
his wisdom and frenzy are both singularly conspicuous.

During the whole of this private conference, Sancho listened to his
master with great attention, and endeavored so to register his counsel
in his mind that he might thereby be enabled to bear the burden of
government and acquit himself honorably. Don Quixote now proceeded:--

"As to the regulation of thine own person and domestic concerns," said
he, "in the first place, Sancho, I enjoin thee to be cleanly in all
things. Keep the nails of thy fingers constantly and neatly pared, nor
suffer them to grow as some do, who ignorantly imagine that long nails
beautify the hand, and account the excess of that excrement simply a
finger-nail, whereas it is rather the talon of the lizard-hunting
kestrel,--a foul and unsightly object. A slovenly dress betokens a
careless mind; or, as in the case of Julius Cæsar, it may be attributed
to cunning.

"Examine prudently the income of thy office, and if it will afford thee
to give liveries to thy servants, give them such as are decent and
lasting, rather than gaudy and modish; and what thou shalt thus save in
thy servants bestow on the poor; so shalt thou have attendants both in
heaven and earth--a provision which our vain-glorious great never think
of.

"Eat neither garlic nor onions, lest the smell betray thy rusticity.
Walk with gravity, and speak deliberately, but not so as to seem to be
listening to thyself; for affectation is odious.

"Eat little at dinner and less at supper; for the health of the whole
body is tempered in the laboratory of the stomach.

"Drink with moderation; for inebriety never keeps a secret nor performs
a promise.

"In the next place, Sancho, do not intermix in thy discourse such a
multitude of proverbs as thou wert wont to do; for though proverbs are
concise and pithy sentences, thou dost so often drag them in by the head
and shoulders that they look more like the ravings of distraction than
well-chosen apothegms."

"That defect God himself must remedy," said Sancho; "for I have more
proverbs by heart than would be sufficient to fill a large book; and,
when I speak, they crowd together in such a manner as to quarrel for
utterance; so that my tongue discharges them just as they happen to be
in the way, whether they are or are not to the purpose: but I will take
care henceforward to throw out those that may be suitable to the gravity
of my office: for, 'Where there's plenty of meat, the supper will soon
be complete;' 'He that shuffles does not cut;' 'A good hand makes a
short game;' and, 'It requires a good brain to know when to give and
retain.'"

"Courage, Sancho," cried Don Quixote; "squeeze, tack, and string your
proverbs together; here are none to oppose you. My mother whips me, and
I whip the top. Here am I exhorting thee to suppress thy proverbs, and
in an instant thou hast spewed forth a whole litany of them, which are
as foreign from the subject as an old ballad. Remember, Sancho, I do not
say that a proverb properly applied is amiss; but, to throw in, and
string together old saws helter-skelter, renders conversation altogether
mean and despicable.

"When you appear on horseback do not lean backward over the saddle, nor
stretch out your legs stiffly from the horse's belly, nor let them hang
dangling in a slovenly manner, as if you were upon the back of Dapple;
for some ride like jockeys, and some like gentlemen.

"Be very moderate in sleeping; for he who does not rise with the sun
cannot enjoy the day; and observe, O Sancho, industry is the mother of
prosperity; and laziness, her opposite, never saw the accomplishment of
a good wish.

"This is all the advice, friend Sancho, that occurs to me at present;
hereafter, as occasions offer, my instructions will be ready, provided
thou art mindful to inform me of the state of thy affairs."

"Sir," answered Sancho, "I see very well that all your worship has told
me is wholesome and profitable; but what shall I be the better for it if
I cannot keep it in my head? It is true, I shall not easily forget what
you have said about paring my nails, and marrying again if the
opportunity offers; but for your other quirks and quillets, I protest
they have already gone out of my head as clean as last year's clouds;
and therefore, let me have them in writing; for though I cannot read
them myself, I will give them to my confessor, that he may repeat and
drive them into me in time of need."

"Heaven defend me!" said Don Quixote, "how scurvy doth it look in a
governor to be unable to read or write! Indeed, Sancho, I must needs
tell thee that when a man has not been taught to read, or is
left-handed, it argues that his parentage was very low, or that, in
early life, he was so indocile and perverse that his teachers could beat
nothing good into him. Truly this is a great defect in thee, and
therefore I would have thee learn to write, even if it were only thy
name."

"That I can do already," quoth Sancho; "for when I was steward of the
brotherhood in our village, I learned to make certain marks like those
upon wool-packs, which they told me, stood for my name. But, at the
worst, I can feign a lameness in my right hand, and get another to sign
for me: there is a remedy for every thing but death; and, having the
staff in my hand, I can do what I please. Besides, as your worship
knows, he whose father is mayor[12]--and I, being governor, am, I trow,
something more than mayor.

"Ay, ay, let them come that list, and play at bo-peep--ay, fleer and
backbite me; but they may come for wool and go back shorn: 'His home is
savory whom God loves;'--besides, 'The rich man's blunders pass current
for wise maxims;' so that I, being a governor, and therefore wealthy,
and bountiful to boot--as I intend to be--nobody will see any blemish in
me. No, no, let the clown daub himself with honey, and he will never
want flies. 'As much as you have, just so much you are worth,' said my
grandam; revenge yourself upon the rich who can."

"Heaven confound thee!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "sixty thousand devils
take thee and thy proverbs! This hour, or more, thou hast been stringing
thy musty wares, poisoning and torturing me without mercy. Take my word
for it, these proverbs will one day bring thee to the gallows;--they
will surely provoke thy people to rebellion! Where dost thou find them?
How shouldst thou apply them, idiot? for I toil and sweat as if I were
delving the ground to utter but one, and apply it properly."

"Before Heaven, master of mine," replied Sancho, "your worship complains
of very trifles. Why, in the devil's name, are you angry that I make use
of my own goods? for other stock I have none, nor any stock but proverbs
upon proverbs; and just now I have four ready to pop out, all pat and
fitting as pears in a pannier--but I am dumb: Silence is my name."[13]

"Then art thou vilely miscalled," quoth Don Quixote, "being an eternal
babbler. Nevertheless, I would fain know these four proverbs that come
so pat to the purpose; for I have been rummaging my own memory, which is
no bad one, but for the soul of me, I can find none."

"Can there be better," quoth Sancho, "than--'Never venture your fingers
between two eye-teeth;' and with 'Get out of my house--what would you
have with my wife?' there is no arguing; and, 'Whether the pitcher hits
the stone, or the stone hits the pitcher, it goes ill with the pitcher.'
All these, your worship must see, fit to a hair. Let no one meddle with
the governor or his deputy, or he will come off the worst, like him who
claps his finger between two eye-teeth, and though they were not
eye-teeth, 'tis enough if they be but teeth. To what a governor says
there is no replying, any more than to 'Get out of my house--what
business have you with my wife?' Then as to the stone and the pitcher--a
blind man may see that. So he who points to the mote in another man's
eye, should first look to the beam in his own, that it may not be said
of him, the dead woman was afraid of her that was flayed. Besides, your
worship knows well that the fool knows more in his own house than the
wise in that of another."

"Not so, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "the fool knows nothing, either
in his own or any other house; for knowledge is not to be erected upon
so bad a foundation as folly. But here let it rest, Sancho, for, if thou
governest ill, though the fault will be thine, the shame will be mine.
However, I am comforted in having given thee the best counsel in my
power; and therein having done my duty, I am acquitted both of my
obligation and promise; so God speed thee, Sancho, and govern thee in
thy government, and deliver me from the fears I entertain that thou wilt
turn the whole island topsy-turvy!--which, indeed, I might prevent by
letting the duke know what thou art, and telling him that all that
paunch-gut and little carcass of thine is nothing but a sack full of
proverbs and impertinence."

"Signor," replied Sancho, "if your worship really thinks I am not
qualified for that government, I renounce it from henceforward forever,
amen. I have a greater regard for a nail's breadth of my soul than my
whole body; and I can subsist, as bare Sancho, upon a crust of bread and
an onion, as well as governor on capons and partridges; for, while we
sleep, great and small, rich and poor, are equal all. If your worship
will consider, your worship will find that you yourself put this scheme
of government into my head. As for my own part, I know no more of the
matter than a bustard; and, if you think the governorship will be the
means of my going to the devil, I would much rather go as simple Sancho
to Heaven than as a governor to hell-fire."

"Before God!" cried the knight, "from these last reflections thou hast
uttered, I pronounce thee worthy to govern a thousand islands. Thou hast
an excellent natural disposition, without which all science is naught.
Recommend thyself to God, and endeavor to avoid errors in the first
intention. I mean, let thy intention and unshaken purpose be to deal
righteously in all thy transactions, for Heaven always favors the
upright design. And now let us go in to dinner, for I believe their
graces wait for us."


  Without discretion there can be no wit.


O poverty, poverty! I know not what should induce the great Cordovan
poet to call thee a holy, unrequited gift. I, though a Moor, am very
sensible, from my correspondence with Christians, that holiness consists
in charity, humility, faith, poverty, and obedience; yet, nevertheless,
I will affirm that he must be holy indeed, who can sit down content with
poverty, unless we mean that kind of poverty to which one of the
greatest saints alludes, when he says, "Possess of all things as not
possessing them;" and this is called spiritual poverty. But thou second
poverty, which is the cause I spoke of, why wouldst thou assault
gentlemen of birth rather than any other class of people? Why dost thou
compel them to cobble their shoes, and wear upon their coats one button
of silk, another of hair, and a third of glass? Why must their ruffs be
generally yellow and ill-starched? (By the by, from this circumstance we
learn the antiquity of ruffs and starch. But thus he proceeds:) O
wretched man of noble pedigree! who is obliged to administer cordials to
his honor, in the midst of hunger and solitude, by playing the hypocrite
with a toothpick, which he affects to use in the street, though he has
eat nothing to require that act of cleanliness. Wretched he, I say,
whose honor is ever apt to be startled, and thinks that everybody at a
league's distance observes the patch upon his shoe, his greasy hat, and
his threadbare cloak, and even the hunger that consumes him.


  Better a blush on the face than a stain in the heart.

  Look not in last year's nests for this year's birds.


A SERENADE.

And he forthwith imagined that some damsel belonging to the duchess had
become enamored of him. Though somewhat fearful of the beautiful foe, he
resolved to fortify his heart, and on no account to yield; so,
commending himself with fervent devotion to his mistress, Dulcinea del
Toboso, he determined to listen to the music; and to let the damsel know
he was there he gave a feigned sneeze, at which they were not a little
pleased, as they desired above all things that he should hear them. The
harp being now tuned, Altisidora began the following song[14]:--

  Wake, sir knight, now love's invading,
    Sleep in Holland sheets no more;
  When a nymph is serenading,
    'Tis an arrant shame to snore.

  Hear a damsel tall and tender,
    Moaning in most rueful guise,
  With heart almost burned to cinder
    By the sunbeams of thine eyes.

  To free damsels from disaster
    Is, they say, your daily care:
  Can you then deny a plaster
    To a wounded virgin here?

  Tell me, doughty youth, who cursed thee
    With such humors and ill-luck?
  Was't some sullen bear dry-nursed thee,
    Or she-dragon gave thee suck?

  Dulcinea, that virago,
    Well may brag of such a Cid,
  Now her fame is up, and may go
    From Toledo to Madrid.

  Would she but her prize surrender,
    (Judge how on thy face I dote!)
  In exchange I'd gladly send her
    My best gown and petticoat.

  Happy I, would fortune doom me
    But to have me near thy bed,
  Stroke thee, pat thee, currycomb thee,
    And hunt o'er thy knightly head.

  But I ask too much, sincerely,
    And I doubt I ne'er must do't,
  I'd but kiss your toe, and fairly
    Get the length thus of your foot.

  How I'd rig thee, and what riches
    Should be heaped upon thy bones!
  Caps and socks, and cloaks and breeches,
    Matchless pearls and precious stones.

  Do not from above, like Nero,
    See me burn and slight my woe,
  But to quench my fires, my hero,
    Cast a pitying eye below.

  I'm a virgin-pullet, truly;
    One more tender ne'er was seen.
  A mere chicken fledged but newly;--
    Hang me if I'm yet fifteen.

  Wind and limb, all's tight about me,
    My hair dangles to my feet;
  I am straight, too:--if you doubt me,
    Trust your eyes, come down and see't.

  I've a bob nose has no fellow,
    And a sparrow's mouth as rare;
  Teeth, like bright topazes, yellow;
    Yet I'm deemed a beauty here.

  You know what a rare musician
    (If you hearken) courts your choice;
  I dare say my disposition
    Is as taking as my voice.

Here ended the song of the amorous Altisidora, and began the alarm of
the courted Don Quixote, who, fetching a deep sigh, said within himself:
"Why am I so unhappy a knight-errant that no damsel can see but she must
presently fall in love with me? Why is the peerless Dulcinea so unlucky
that she must not be suffered singly to enjoy this my incomparable
constancy? Queens, what would ye have with her? Empresses, why do ye
persecute her? Damsels from fourteen to fifteen, why do ye plague her?
Leave, leave the poor creature; let her triumph and glory in the lot
which love bestowed upon her in the conquest of my heart and the
surrender of my soul. Take notice, enamored multitude, that to Dulcinea
alone I am paste and sugar, and to all others flint. To her I am honey,
and to the rest of ye aloes. To me, Dulcinea alone is beautiful,
discreet, lively, modest, and well-born; all the rest of her sex foul,
foolish, fickle, and base-born. To be hers, and hers alone, nature sent
me into the world. Let Altisidora weep or sing, let the lady despair on
whose account I was buffeted in the castle of the enchanted Moor; boiled
or roasted, Dulcinea's I must be, clean, well-bred, and chaste, in spite
of all the necromantic powers on earth."


HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF THE
MANNER OF HIS BEGINNING TO GOVERN IT.--THE GOVERNOR'S WISDOM.

O thou ceaseless discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye of
Heaven, and sweet cause of earthen wine coolers; here Thymbrius, there
Phoebus; here archer, there physician, father of poesy, inventor of
music; thou who always risest, and, though thou seemest to do so, never
settest,--to thee I speak, O sun! thee I invoke to favor and enlighten
the obscurity of the great Sancho Panza; without thee I find myself
indolent, dispirited, and confused!

Sancho, then, with all his attendants, arrived at a town containing
about a thousand inhabitants, which was one of the largest and best the
duke had. They gave him to understand that it was called the island of
Barataria, either because Barataria was really the name of the place, or
because he obtained the government of it at so cheap a rate. On his
arrival near the gates of the town, which was walled about, the
municipal officers came out to receive him. The bells rung, and, with
all the demonstrations of a general joy and a great deal of pomp, the
people conducted him to the great church to give thanks to God.
Presently after, with certain ridiculous ceremonies, they presented him
the keys of the town and constituted him perpetual governor of the
island of Barataria. The garb, the beard, the thickness and shortness of
the new governor, surprised all who were not in the secret, and, indeed,
those who were, who were not a few. In fine, as soon as they had brought
him out of the church, they carried him to the tribunal of justice and
placed him in the chair. The duke's steward then said to him, "It is an
ancient custom here, my lord governor, that he who comes to take
possession of this famous island is obliged to answer a question put to
him, which is to be somewhat intricate and difficult. By his answer the
people are enabled to feel the pulse of their new governor's
understanding, and, accordingly, are either glad or sorry for his
coming."

While the steward was saying this, Sancho was staring at some capital
letters written on the wall opposite to his chair, and, being unable to
read, he asked what that writing was on the wall. He was answered, "Sir,
it is there written on what day your honor took possession of this
island. The inscription runs thus: 'This day, such a day of the month
and year, Signor Don Sancho Panza took possession of this island. Long
may he enjoy it.'"

"Pray who is it they call Don Sancho Panza?" demanded Sancho.

"Your lordship," answered the steward! "for no other Panza, besides him
now in the chair, ever came into this island."

"Take notice, then, brother," returned Sancho, "that the _Don_ does not
belong to me, nor ever did to any of my family. I am called plain Sancho
Panza: my father was a Sancho, and my grandfather was a Sancho, and they
were all Panzas, without any addition of _Dons_, or any other title
whatever. I fancy there are more _Dons_ than stones in this island. But
enough: God knows my meaning: and perhaps, if my government lasts four
days, I may weed out these _Dons_ that over-run the country, and, by
their numbers, are as troublesome as mosquitoes and cousins. On with
your question, Master Steward, and I will answer the best I can, let the
people be sorry or rejoice."

About this time two men came into the court, the one clad like a country
fellow, and the other like a tailor, with a pair of shears in his hand;
and the tailor said: "My lord governor, I and this countryman come
before your worship by reason this honest man came yesterday to my shop
(saving your presence, I am a tailor, and have passed my examination,
God be thanked), and putting a piece of cloth into my hands, asked me,
'Sir, is there enough of this to make me a cap?' I, measuring the piece,
answered Yes. Now he bade me view it again, and see if there was not
enough for two. I guessed his drift, and told him there was. Persisting
in his knavish intentions, my customer went on increasing the number of
caps, and I still saying yes, till we came to five caps. A little time
ago he came to claim them. I offered them to him, but he refuses to pay
me for the making, and insists I shall either return him his cloth, or
pay him for it."

"Is all this so, brother?" demanded Sancho.

"Yes," answered the man; "but pray, my lord, make him produce the five
caps he has made me."

"With all my heart," answered the tailor; and pulling his hand from
under his cloak, he showed the five caps on the ends of his fingers and
thumb, saying: "Here are the five caps this honest man would have me
make, and on my soul and conscience, not a shred of the cloth is left,
and I submit the work to be viewed by any inspectors of the trade."

All present laughed at the number of the caps and the novelty of the
suit. Sancho reflected a moment, and then said: "I am of opinion there
needs no great delay in this suit, and it may be decided very equitably
off-hand. Therefore I pronounce, that the tailor lose the making, and
the countryman the stuff, and that the caps be confiscated to the use of
the poor: and there is an end of that."

If the sentence Sancho afterwards passed on the purse of the herdsman
caused the admiration of all the bystanders, this excited their
laughter. However, what the governor commanded was executed, and two old
men next presented themselves before him. One of them carried a cane in
his hand for a staff; the other, who had no staff, said to Sancho: "My
lord, some time ago I lent this man ten crowns of gold to oblige and
serve him, upon condition that he should return them on demand. I let
some time pass without asking for them, being loth to put him to a
greater strait to pay me than he was in when I lent them. But at length,
thinking it full time to be repaid, I asked him for my money more than
once, but to no purpose: he not only refuses payment, but denies the
debt, and says I never lent him any such sum, or, if I did that he had
already paid me. I have no witnesses to the loan, nor has he of the
payment which he pretends to have made, but which I deny; yet if he will
swear before your worship that he has returned the money, I from this
minute acquit him before God and the world."

"What say you to this, old gentleman?" quoth Sancho.

"I confess, my lord," replied the old fellow, "that he did lend me the
money, and if your worship pleases to hold down your wand of justice,
since he leaves it to my oath, I will swear I have really and truly
returned it to him."

The governor accordingly held down his wand, and the old fellow, seeming
encumbered with his staff, gave it to his creditor to hold while he was
swearing; and then taking hold of the cross of the wand, he said it was
true indeed the other had lent him ten crowns, but that he had restored
them to him into his own hand; but having, he supposed, forgotten it, he
was continually dunning him for them. Upon which his lordship the
governor demanded of the creditor what he had to say in reply to the
solemn declaration he had heard. He said that he submitted, and could
not doubt but that his debtor had sworn the truth; for he believed him
to be an honest man and a good Christian; and that, as the fault must
have been in his own memory, he would thenceforward ask him no more for
his money. The debtor now took his staff again, and bowing to the
governor, went out of court.

Sancho having observed the defendant take his staff and walk away, and
noticing also the resignation of the plaintiff, he began to meditate,
and laying the fore-finger of his right hand upon his forehead, he
continued a short time apparently full of thought; and then raising his
head, he ordered the old man with the staff to be called back; and when
he had returned, "Honest friend," said the governor, "give me that
staff, for I have occasion for it."

"With all my heart," answered the old fellow; and delivered it into his
hand. Sancho took it, and giving it to the other old man, said: "Go
about your business, in God's name, for you are paid." "I, my lord,"
answered the old man; "what! is this cane worth ten golden crowns?"

"Yes," quoth the governor, "or I am the greatest dunce in the world! and
now it shall appear whether I have a head to govern a whole kingdom."
Straight he commanded the cane to be broken before them all. Which being
done there were found in the hollow of it ten crowns in gold.

All were struck with admiration, and took their new governor for a
second Solomon. They asked him, whence he had collected that the ten
crowns were in the cane. He answered, that upon seeing the old man give
it his adversary, while he was taking the oath, and swearing that he
had really and truly restored them into his own hands, and, when he had
done, ask for it again, it came into his imagination, the money in
dispute must be in the hollow of the cane. Whence it may be gathered,
that, God Almighty often directs the judgment of those who govern,
though otherwise mere blockheads: besides, he had heard the priest of
his parish tell a like case; and, were it not that he was so unlucky as
to forget all he had a mind to remember, his memory was so good, there
would not have been a better in the whole island.

At length, both the old men marched off, the one ashamed, and the other
satisfied; the bystanders were surprised, and the secretary, who minuted
down the words, actions, and behavior of Sancho Panza, could not
determine with himself, whether he should set him down for a wise man or
a fool. All the court were in admiration at the acuteness and wisdom of
their new governor; all of whose sentences and decrees, being noted down
by the appointed historiographer, were immediately transmitted to the
duke, who waited for these accounts with the utmost impatience.

  We see that governors, though otherwise fools, are sometimes
  directed in their decisions by the hand of God.

  Time is ever moving; nothing ever can impede his course.

  An understanding in the beginning is often an effectual cure
  for those who are indiscreetly in love.

At eleven o'clock Don Quixote retired to his apartment, and finding a
lute there, he tuned it, opened the window, and, perceiving there was
somebody walking in the garden, he ran over the strings of the
instrument; and, having tuned it again as nicely as he could, he coughed
and cleared his throat; and then, with a voice somewhat hoarse, yet not
unmusical, he sang the following song, which he had composed himself
that very day:--

THE ADVICE.

MATTEAUX'S TRANSLATION.

  Love, a strong, designing foe.
    Careless hearts with ease deceives;
  Can thy breast resist his blow,
    Which your sloth unguarded leaves?

  If you're idle you're destroyed,
    All his art on you he tries;
  But be watchful and employed,
    Straight the baffled tempter flies.

  Maids for modest grace admired,
    If they would their fortunes raise,
  Must in silence live retired:
    'Tis their virtue speaks their praise.

  The divine Tobosan fair,
    Dulcinea, claims me whole;
  Nothing can her image tear!
    'Tis one substance with my soul.

  Then let fortune smile or frown,
    Nothing shall my faith remove;
  Constant truth, the lover's crown,
    Can work miracles in love.

THE SAME AS TRANSLATED BY SMOLLETT.

  Love, with idleness combined,
  Will unhinge the tender mind:
  But to few, to work and move,
  Will exclude the force of love.
  Blooming maids that would be married,
  Must in virtue be unwearied;
  Modesty a dower will raise,
  And be a trumpet of their praise.
  A cavalier will sport and play
  With a damsel frank and gay;
  But, when wedlock is his aim,
  Choose a maid of sober fame.
  Passion kindled in the breast,
  By a stranger or a guest,
  Enters with the rising sun,
  And fleets before his race be run:
  Love that comes so suddenly,
  Ever on the wing to fly,
  Neither can nor will impart
  Strong impressions to the heart.
  Pictures drawn on pictures, show
  Strange confusion to the view:
  Second beauty finds no base,
  Where a first has taken place:
  Then Dulcinea still shall reign
  Without a rival or a stain;
  Nor shall fate itself control
  Her sway, or blot her from my soul:
  Constancy, the lover's boast,
  I'll maintain whate'er it cost:
  This, my virtue will refine;
  This will stamp my joys divine.

THE SAME AS TRANSLATED BY JARVIS.

  Love, with idleness is friend,
  O'er a maiden gains its end:
  But let business and employment
  Fill up every careful moment;
  These an antidote will prove
  'Gainst the pois'nous arts of love.
  Maidens that aspire to marry,
  In their looks reserve should carry:
  Modesty their price should raise,
  And be the herald of their praise.
  Knights, whom toils of arms employ,
  With the free may laugh and toy;
  But the modest only, choose
  When they tie the nuptial noose.
  Love that rises with the sun,
  With his setting beams is gone:
  Love that guest-like visits hearts,
  When the banquet's o'er, departs:
  And the love that comes to-day,
  And to-morrow wings its way,
  Leaves no traces on the soul,
  Its affections to control.
  Where a sovereign beauty reigns,
  Fruitless are a rival's pains,--
  O'er a finished picture who
  E'er a second picture drew?
  Fair Dulcinea, queen of beauty,
  Rules my heart, and claims its duty,
  Nothing there can take her place,
  Naught her image can erase.
  Whether fortune smile or frown,
  Constancy 's the lover's crown;
  And, its force divine to prove,
  Miracles performs in love.


THE GOVERNOR IN A RAGE.

The history relates that Sancho Panza was conducted from the court of
justice to a sumptuous palace, where in a great hall he found a
magnificent entertainment prepared. He had no sooner entered than his
ears were saluted by the sound of many instruments, and four pages
served him with water to wash his hands, which the governor received
with becoming gravity. The music having ceased, Sancho now sat down to
dinner in a chair of state placed at the upper end of the table, for
there was but one seat and only one plate and napkin. A personage, who,
as it afterwards appeared, was a physician, took his stand at one side
of his chair with a whalebone rod in his hand. They then removed the
beautiful white cloth, which covered a variety of fruits and other
eatables. Grace was said by one in a student's dress, and a laced bib
was placed by a page under Sancho's chin. Another, who performed the
office of sewer, now set a plate of fruit before him; but he had
scarcely tasted it, when, on being touched by the wand-bearer, it was
snatched away, and another containing meat instantly supplied its place.
Yet before Sancho could make a beginning it vanished, like the former,
on a signal of the wand.

The governor was surprised at this proceeding, and looking around him,
asked if this dinner was only to show off their sleight of hand.

"My lord," said the wand-bearer, "your lordship's food must here be
watched with the same care as is customary with the governors of other
islands. I am a doctor of physic, sir, and my duty, for which I receive
a salary, is to watch over the governor's health, whereof I am more
careful than of my own. I study his constitution night and day, that I
may know how to restore him when sick; and therefore think it incumbent
on me to pay especial regard to his meals, at which I constantly
preside, to see that he eats what is good and salutary, and prevent his
touching whatever I imagine may be prejudicial to his health or
offensive to his stomach. It was for that reason, my lord," continued
he, "I ordered the dish of fruit to be taken away, as being too watery,
and that other dish, as being too hot and over-seasoned with spices,
which are apt to provoke thirst; and he that drinks much destroys and
consumes the radical moisture, which is the fuel of life."

"Well, then," quoth Sancho, "that plate of roasted partridges, which
seem to me to be very well seasoned, I suppose will do me no manner of
harm?"

"Hold," said the doctor, "my lord governor shall not eat them while I
live to prevent it."

"Pray, why not?" quoth Sancho.

"Because," answered the doctor, "our great master Hippocrates, the north
star and luminary of medicine, says in one of his aphorisms, _Omnis
saturatio mala, perdicis autem pessima_; which means, 'All repletion is
bad, but that from partridges the worst.'"

"If it be so," quoth Sancho, "pray cast your eye, signor doctor, over
all these dishes here on the table, and see which will do me the most
good or the least harm, and let me eat of it without whisking it away
with your conjuring-stick; for, by my soul, and as Heaven shall give me
life to enjoy this government, I am dying with hunger; and to deny me
food--let signor doctor say what he will--is not the way to lengthen my
life, but to cut it short."

"Your worship is in the right, my lord governor," answered the
physician, "and therefore I am of opinion you should not eat of these
stewed rabbits, as being a food that is tough and acute; of that veal,
indeed, you might have taken a little, had it been neither roasted nor
stewed; but as it is, not a morsel."

"What think you, then," said Sancho, "of that huge dish there, smoking
hot, which I take to be an olla-podrida?--for, among the many things
contained in it, I surely may light upon something both wholesome and
toothsome."

"_Absit!_" quoth the doctor, "far be such a thought from us.
Olla-podrida! there is no worse dish in the world. Leave them to
prebends and rectors of colleges or lusty feeders at country weddings;
but let them not be seen on the tables of governors, where nothing
contrary to health and delicacy should be tolerated. Simple medicines
are always more estimable and safe, for in them there can be no mistake,
whereas in such as are compounded all is hazard and uncertainty.
Therefore, what I would at present advise my lord governor to eat, in
order to corroborate and preserve his health, is about a hundred small
rolled-up wafers, with some thin slices of marmalade, that may sit upon
the stomach and help digestion."

Sancho, hearing this, threw himself backward in his chair, and looking
at the doctor from head to foot very seriously, asked him his name and
where he had studied. To which he answered, "My lord governor, my name
is Doctor Pedro Rezio de Aguero; I am a native of a place called
Tirteafuera, lying between Caraquel and Almoddobar del Campo, on the
right hand, and I have taken my doctor's degrees in the university of
Ossuna."

"Then, hark you," said Sancho in a rage, "Signor Doctor Pedro Rezzio de
Aguero, native of Tirteafuera, lying on the right hand as we go from
Caraquel to Almoddobar del Campo, graduate in Ossuna, get out of my
sight this instant, or, by the light of Heaven, I will take a cudgel,
and, beginning with your carcass, will so belabor all the physic-mongers
in the island, that not one of the tribe shall be left!--I mean of those
like yourself, who are ignorant quacks. For those who are learned and
wise I shall make much of and honor as so many angels. I say again,
Signor Pedro Rezio, begone, or I shall take the chair I sit on and comb
your head to some tune; and if I am called to an account for it when I
give up my office, I shall prove that I have done a good service in
ridding the world of a bad physician, who is a public executioner. Body
of me! give me something to eat, or let them take back their
government,--for an office that will not find a man in victuals is not
worth two beans."

On seeing the governor in such a fury the doctor would have fled out in
the hall had not the sound of a courier's horn at that instant been
heard in the street. "A courier from my lord duke," said the sewer (who
had looked out of the window), "and he must certainly have brought
despatches of importance."

The courier entered hastily, foaming with sweat and in great agitation,
and pulling a packet out of his bosom, he delivered it into the
governor's hands, and by him it was given to the steward, telling him to
read the superscription, which was this: "To Don Sancho Panza, Governor
of the Island of Barataria. To be delivered only to himself or to his
secretary."

"Who is my secretary?" said Sancho.

"It is I, my lord," answered one who was present, "for I can read and
write, and am, besides, a Biscayan."

"With that addition," quoth Sancho, "you may very well be secretary to
the emperor himself. Open the packet and see what it holds."

The new secretary did so, and having run his eye over the contents, he
said it was a business which required privacy. Accordingly, Sancho
commanded all to retire excepting the steward and sewer; and when the
hall was cleared, the secretary read the following letter:--

"It has just come to my knowledge, Signor Don Panza, that certain
enemies of mine intend very soon to make a desperate attack, by night,
upon the island under your command; it is necessary, therefore, to be
vigilant and alert, that you may not be taken by surprise. I have also
received intelligence from trusty spies, that four persons in disguise
are now in your town, sent thither by the enemy, who, fearful of your
great talents, have a design upon your life. Keep a strict watch, be
careful who are admitted to you, and eat nothing sent you as a present.
I will not fail to send you assistance if you are in want of it.
Whatever may be attempted, I have full reliance on your activity and
judgment.

"Your friend,

"THE DUKE.

"From this place, the 16th of August, at four in the morning."

Sancho was astonished at this information, and the others appeared to be
no less so. At length, turning to the steward, "I will tell you," said
he, "the first thing to be done, which is to clap Doctor Rezio into a
dungeon; for if anybody has a design to kill me, it is he, and that by
the most lingering and the worst of all deaths,--starvation."

"Be that as it may," said the steward, "it is my opinion your honor
would do well to eat none of the meat here upon the table, for it was
presented by some nuns, and it is a saying, 'The devil lurks behind the
cross.'"

"You are in the right," quoth Sancho, "and for the present give me only
a piece of bread and some four pounds of grapes,--there can be no poison
in them,--for, in truth, I cannot live without food, and if we must keep
in readiness for these battles that threaten us, it is fit that we
should be well fed, for the stomach upholds the heart and the heart the
man. Do you, Mr. Secretary, answer the letter of my lord duke, and tell
him his commands shall be obeyed throughout most faithfully; and present
my dutiful respects to my lady duchess, and beg her not to forget to
send a special messenger with my letter and bundle to my wife Teresa
Panza, which I shall take as a particular favor, and will be her humble
servant to the utmost of my power. And, by the way, you may put in my
hearty service to my master, Don Quixote de la Mancha, that he may see
that I am neither forgetful nor ungrateful; and as to the rest, I leave
it to you, as a good secretary and a true Biscayan, to add whatever you
please, or that may turn to the best account. Now away with this cloth,
and bring me something that may be eaten, and then let these spies,
murderers, and enchanters see how they meddle with me or my island."

A page now entered, saying, "Here is a countryman who would speak with
your lordship on business, as he says, of great importance."

"It is very strange," quoth Saneho, "that these men of business should
be so silly as not to see that this is not a time for such matters.
What! we who govern and belike are not made of flesh and bone like
other men! We are made of marble-stone, forsooth, and have no need of
rest or refreshment! Before Heaven and upon my conscience, if my
government lasts, as I have a glimmering it will not, I shall hamper
more than one of these men of business! Well, for this once, tell the
fellow to come in; but first see that he is no spy, nor one of my
murderers."

"He looks, my lord," answered the page, "like a simple fellow, and I am
much mistaken if he be not as harmless as a crust of bread."

"Your worship need not fear," quoth the steward, "since we are with
you."

"But now that Doctor Pedro Rezio is gone," quoth Sancho, "may I not have
something to eat of substance and weight, though it were but a luncheon
of bread and an onion?"

"At night your honor shall have no cause to complain," quoth the sewer;
"supper shall make up for the want of dinner."

"Heaven grant it may," replied Sancho.


THE COUNTRYMAN'S TALE.

The countryman, who was of goodly presence, then came in, and it might
be seen a thousand leagues off that he was an honest, good soul.

"Which among you here is the lord governor?" said he.

"Who should it be," answered the secretary, "but he who is seated in the
chair?"

"I humble myself in his presence," quoth the countryman; and kneeling
down, he begged for his hand to kiss.

Sancho refused it, and commanded him to rise and tell his business. The
countryman did so, and said: "My lord, I am a husbandman, a native of
Miguel Terra, two leagues from Ciudad Real."

"What! another Tirteafuera?" quoth Sancho. "Say on, brother; for let me
tell you, I know Miguel Terra very well; it is not very far from my own
village."

"The business is this, sir," continued the peasant: "by the mercy of
Heaven I was married in peace and in the face of the holy Roman Catholic
Church. I have two sons, bred scholars; the younger studies for
bachelor, and the elder for licentiate. I am a widower, for my wife
died, or rather a wicked physician killed her by improper medicines when
she was pregnant; and if it had been God's will that the child had been
born, and had proved a son, I would have put him to study for doctor,
that he might not envy his two brothers, the bachelor and the
licentiate."

"So that, if your wife," quoth Sancho, "had not died, or had not been
killed, you would not now be a widower."

"No, certainly, my lord," answered the peasant.

"We are much the nearer," replied Sancho; "go on, friend, for this is an
hour rather for bed than business."

"I say, then," quoth the countryman, "that my son who is to be the
bachelor fell in love with a damsel in the same village, called Clara
Perlerino, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a very rich farmer; which name
of Perlerino came to them not by lineal or any other descent, but
because all of that race are paralytic; and to mend the name, they call
them Perlerinos. Indeed, to say the truth, the damsel is like any
oriental pearl, and looked at on the right side seems a very flower of
the field; but on the left not quite so fair, for on that side she wants
an eye, which she lost by the small-pox; and though the pits in her face
are many and deep, her admirers say they are not pits but graves wherein
the hearts of her lovers are buried. So clean and delicate, too, is she,
that to prevent defiling her face, she carries her nose so hooked up
that it seems to fly from her mouth; yet for all that she looks
charmingly, for she has a large mouth, and did she not lack half a score
or a dozen front teeth she might pass and make a figure among the
fairest. I say nothing of her lips, for they are so thin that, were it
the fashion to reel lips, one might make a skein of them; but, being of
a different color from what is usual in lips, they have a marvellous
appearance, for they are streaked with blue, green, and orange-tawny.
Pardon me, good my lord governor, if I paint so minutely the parts of
her who is about to become my daughter; for in truth I love and admire
her more than I can tell."

"Paint what you will," quoth Sancho, "for I am mightily taken with the
picture; and had I but dined, I would not desire a better dessert than
your portrait."

"It shall be always at your service," answered the peasant; "and the
time may come when we may be acquainted, though we are not so now; and
I assure you, my lord, if I could but paint her genteelness and the
tallness of her person, you would admire: but that cannot be, because
she is crooked, and crumpled up together, and her knees touch her mouth;
though, for all that, you may see plainly that could she but stand
upright she would touch the ceiling with her head. And she would ere now
have given her hand to my bachelor to be his wife, but that she cannot
stretch it out, it is so shrunk; nevertheless, her long guttered nails
show the goodness of its make."

"So far so good," quoth Sancho; "and now, brother, make account that you
have painted her from head to foot. What is it you would be at? Come to
the point without so many windings and turnings, so many fetches and
digressions."

"What I desire, my lord," answered the countryman, "is, that your
lordship would do me the favor to give me a letter of recommendation to
her father, begging his consent to the match, since we are pretty equal
in our fortunes and natural endowments; for, to say the truth, my lord
governor, my son is possessed, and scarcely a day passes in which the
evil spirits do not torment him three or four times; and having thereby
once fallen into the fire, his face is as shrivelled as a piece of
scorched parchment, and his eyes are somewhat bleared and running; but,
bless him! he has the temper of an angel, and did he not buffet and
belabor himself, he would be a very saint for gentleness."

"Would you have anything else, honest friend?" said Sancho.

"One thing more I would ask," quoth the peasant, "but I dare not,--yet
out it shall; come what may, it shall not rot in my breast. I say then,
my lord, I could wish your worship to give me three or six hundred
ducats towards mending the fortunes of my bachelor,--I mean, to assist
in furnishing his house; for it is agreed that they shall live by
themselves, without being subject to the impertinences of their
fathers-in-law."

"Well," quoth Sancho, "see if there is anything else you would have, and
be not squeamish in asking."

"No, nothing more," answered the peasant.

The governor then rising, and seizing the chair on which he had been
seated, exclaimed, "I vow to Heaven, Don Lubberly, saucy bumpkin, if you
do not instantly get out of my sight, I will break your head with this
chair! Son of a rascal, and the devil's own painter! At this time of day
to come and ask me for six hundred ducats! Where should I have them,
villain? And if I had them, idiot! why should I give them to thee? What
care I for Miguel Terra, or for the whole race of the Perlerinos?
Begone, I say! or, by the life of my lord duke, I will be as good as my
word. Thou art no native of Miguel Terra, but some scoffer sent from the
devil to tempt me. Impudent scoundrel! I have not yet had the government
a day and a half, and you expect I should have six hundred ducats!"

The sewer made signs to the countryman to go out of the hall, which he
did, hanging down his head, and seemingly much afraid lest the governor
should put his threat into execution,--for the knave knew very well how
to play his part.

But let us leave Sancho in his passion; peace be with him!


  The devil will never give you a high nose if a flat nose
  will serve your turn.

  All is not gold that glitters.

  I am fully convinced that judges and governors are, or ought
  to be, made of brass, so as that they may not feel the
  importunity of people of business, who expect to be heard
  and despatched at all hours and at all seasons, come what
  will, attending only to their own affairs; and if the poor
  devil of a judge does not hear and despatch them, either
  because it is not in his power, or it happens to be an
  unseasonable time for giving audience, then they grumble and
  backbite, gnaw him to the very bones, and even bespatter his
  whole generation. Ignorant man of business! foolish man of
  business! be not in such a violent hurry; wait for the
  proper season and conjuncture, and come not at meals and
  sleeping-time; for judges are made of flesh and blood, and
  must give to nature that which nature requires.

  Good physicians deserve palms and laurels.

  Either we are, or we are not.

  Walls have ears.

  Let us all live and eat together in harmony and good
  friendship.

  When God sends the morning, the light shines upon all.

  Make yourselves honey, and the flies will devour you.

  Your idle and lazy people in a commonwealth are like drones
  in a beehive, which only devour the honey the laboring bees
  gather.

  Every day produces something new in the world: jests turn
  into earnest, and the biters are bit.

  They who expect snacks should be modest, and take cheerfully
  whatever is given them, and not haggle with the winners;
  unless they know them to be sharpers, and their gains
  unfairly gotten.


THE GOVERNOR'S ROUND OF INSPECTION.

After traversing a few streets, they heard the clashing of swords, and,
hastening to the place, they found two men fighting. On seeing the
officers coming they desisted, and one of them said, "Help, in the name
of Heaven and the king! Are people to be attacked here, and robbed in
the open streets?"

"Hold, honest man," quoth Sancho, "and tell me what is the occasion of
this fray; for I am the governor."

His antagonist, interposing, said, "My lord governor, I will briefly
relate the matter:--Your honor must know that this gentleman is just
come from the gaming-house over the way, where he has been winning above
a thousand reals, and heaven knows how, except that I, happening to be
present, was induced, even against my conscience, to give judgment in
his favor in many a doubtful point; and when I expected he would have
given me something, though it were but the small matter of a crown, by
way of present, as it is usual with gentlemen of character like myself,
who stand by, ready to back unreasonable demands, and to prevent
quarrels, up he got, with his pockets filled, and marched out of the
house.

"Surprised and vexed at such conduct, I followed him, civilly reminded
him that he could not refuse me the small sum of eight reals, as he knew
me to be a man of honor, without either office or pension; my parents
having brought me up to nothing: yet this knave, who is as great a thief
as Cacus, and as arrant a sharper as Andradilla, would give me but four
reals! Think, my lord governor, what a shameless and unconscionable
fellow he is! But as I live had it not been for your worship coming, I
would have made him disgorge his winnings, and taught him how to balance
accounts."

"What shall be done," replied Sancho, "is this: you, master winner,
whether by fair play or foul, instantly give your hackster here a
hundred reals, and pay down thirty more for the poor prisoners; and you,
sir, who have neither office nor pension, nor honest employment, take
the hundred reals, and, some time to-morrow, be sure you get out of
this island, nor set foot in it again these ten years, unless you would
finish your banishment in the next life: for if I find you here, I will
make you swing on a gibbet--at least the hangman shall do it for me: so
let no man reply, or he shall repent it."

The decree was immediately executed: the one disbursed, the other
received; the one quitted the island, the other went home.


  Cheats are always at the mercy of their accomplices.

  The maid that would keep her good name, stays at home as if
  she were lame. A hen and a housewife, whatever they cost, if
  once they go gadding will surely be lost. And she that longs
  to see, I ween, is as desirous to be seen.

  Good fortune wants only a beginning.

  When they offer thee a government, lay hold of it.

  When an earldom is put before thee, lay thy clutches on it.

  When they throw thee some beneficial bone, snap at the
  favor; if not, sleep on and never answer to good fortune and
  preferment when they knock at thy door.

  Truth will always rise uppermost, as oil rises above water.

  Seeing is believing.

  According to reason, each thing has its season.

  When justice is doubtful, I should lean to the side of
  mercy.


A MESSENGER TO TERESA PANZA.

Being desirous to please his lord and lady, he set off with much glee to
Sancho's village. Having arrived near it, he inquired of some women whom
he saw washing in a brook if there lived not in that town one Teresa
Panza, wife of one Sancho Panza, squire to a knight called Don Quixote
de la Mancha.

"That Teresa Panza is my mother," said a young lass who was washing
among the rest, "and that Sancho my own father, and that knight our
master."

"Are they so?" quoth the page: "come then, my good girl, and lead me to
your mother, for I have a letter and a token for her from that same
father of yours."

"That I will, with all my heart, sir," answered the girl (who seemed to
be about fourteen years of age); and leaving the linen she was washing
to one of her companions, without stopping to cover either her head or
feet, away she ran skipping along before the page's horse, bare-legged,
and her hair dishevelled.

"Come along, sir, an 't please you," quoth she, "for our house stands
hard by, and you will find my mother in trouble enough for being so long
without tidings of my father."

"Well," said the page, "I now bring her news that will cheer her heart,
I warrant her."

So on he went, with his guide running, skipping, and capering before
him, till they reached the village, and, before she got up to the house,
she called out aloud, "Mother, mother, come out! here's a gentleman who
brings letters and other things from my good father."

At these words out came her mother Teresa Panza with a distaff in her
hand--for she was spinning flax. She was clad in a russet petticoat, so
short that it looked as if it had been docked at the placket, with a
jacket of the same, and the sleeves of her under-garment hanging about
it. She appeared to be about forty years of age and was strong, hale,
sinewy, and hard as a hazel-nut.

"What is the matter, girl?" quoth she, seeing her daughter with the
page; "what gentleman is that?"

"It is an humble servant of my Lady Donna Teresa Panza," answered the
page; and throwing himself from his horse, with great respect he went
and kneeled before the Lady Teresa, saying, "Be pleased, Signora Donna
Teresa, to give me your ladyship's hand to kiss, as the lawful wife of
Signor Don Sancho Panza, sole governor of the island of Barataria."

"Alack-a-day, good sir, how you talk!" she replied: "I am no court-dame,
but a poor country woman, daughter of a ploughman, and wife indeed of a
squire-errant, but no governor."

"Your ladyship," answered the page, "is the most worthy wife of a
thrice-worthy governor, and to confirm the truth of what I say, be
pleased, madam, to receive what I here bring you."

He then drew the letter from his pocket, and a string of corals, each
bead set in gold, and, putting it about her neck, he said, "This letter
is from my lord governor, and another that I have here, and those corals
are from my lady duchess, who sends me to your ladyship."

Teresa and her daughter were all astonishment.

"May I die," said the girl, "if our master Don Quixote be not at the
bottom of this--as sure as day he has given my father the government or
earldom he has so often promised him."

"It is even so," answered the page; "and for Signor Don Quixote's sake,
my Lord Sancho is now governor of the island of Barataria, as the letter
will inform you."

"Pray, young gentleman," quoth Teresa, "be pleased to read it; for
though I can spin I cannot read a jot."

"Nor I neither, i' faith," cried Sanchica; "but stay a little, and I
will fetch one who can, either the bachelor Sampson Carrasco or the
priest himself, who will come with all their hearts to hear news of my
father."

"You need not take that trouble," said the page; "for I can read though
I cannot spin, and will read it to you." Which he accordingly did: but
as its contents have already been given, it is not here repeated. He
then produced the letter from the duchess, and read as follows:--

"FRIEND TERESA,--

"Finding your husband Sancho worthy of my esteem for his honesty and
good understanding, I prevailed upon the duke, my spouse, to make him
governor of one of the many islands in his possession. I am informed he
governs like any hawk; at which I and my lord duke are mightily pleased,
and give many thanks to Heaven that I have not been deceived in my
choice, for madam Teresa may be assured that it is no easy matter to
find a good governor--and God make me as good as Sancho governs well. I
have sent you, my dear friend, a string of corals set in gold--I wish
they were oriental pearls; but whoever gives thee a bone has no mind to
see thee dead: the time will come when we shall be better acquainted,
and converse with each other, and then heaven knows what may happen.
Commend me to your daughter Sanchica, and tell her from me to get
herself ready; for I mean to have her highly married when she least
expects it. I am told the acorns near your town are very large--pray
send me some two dozen of them; for I shall value them the more as
coming from your hand. Write to me immediately, to inform me of your
health and welfare; and if you want anything, you need but open your
mouth, and it shall be measured. So God keep you.

"Your loving Friend,

"The DUCHESS.

"From this place."

"Ah!" quoth Teresa, at hearing the letter, "how good, how plain, how
humble a lady! let me be buried with such ladies as this, say I and not
with such proud madams as this town affords, who think because they are
gentlefolks, the wind must not blow upon them; and go flaunting to
church as if they were queens! they seem to think it a disgrace to look
upon a peasant woman: and yet you see how this good lady, though she be
a duchess, calls me friend, and treats me as if I were her equal!--and
equal may I see her to the highest steeple in La Mancha! As to the
acorns, sir, I will send her ladyship a peck of them, and such as, for
their size, people shall come from far and near to see and admire. But
for the present, Sanchica, let us make much of this gentleman. Do thou
take care of his horse, child, and bring some new-laid eggs out of the
stable, and slice some rashers of bacon, and let us entertain him like
any prince; for his good news and his own good looks deserve no less."

Sanchica now came in with her lap full of eggs. "Pray, sir," said she to
the page, "does my father, now he is a governor, wear trunk-hose?"[15]

"I never observed," answered the page, "but doubtless he does."

"God's my life!" replied Sanchica, "what a sight to see my father in
long breeches? Is it not strange that ever since I was born I have
longed to see my father with breeches of that fashion laced to his
girdle?"

"I warrant you will have that pleasure if you live," answered the page;
"before Heaven, if his government lasts but two months, he is likely to
travel with a cape to his cap." [16]


OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT.

The first business that occurred on that day was an appeal to his
judgment in a case which was thus stated by a stranger--the appellant:
"My lord," said he, "there is a river which passes through the domains
of a certain lord, dividing it into two parts--I beseech your honor to
give me your attention, for it is a case of great importance and some
difficulty. I say, then, that upon this river there was a bridge, and at
one end of it a gallows and a kind of court-house, where four judges sit
to try, and pass sentence upon those who are found to transgress a
certain law enacted by the proprietor, which runs thus: 'Whoever would
pass over this bridge must first declare upon oath whence he comes, and
upon what business he is going; and if he swears the truth, he shall
pass over; but if he swears to a falsehood, he shall certainly die upon
a gibbet there provided.'

"After this law was made known, many persons ventured over it, and the
truth of what they swore being admitted, they were allowed freely to
pass. But a man now comes demanding a passage over the bridge; and, on
taking the required oath, he swears that he is going to be executed
upon the gibbet before him, and that he has no other business. The
judges deliberated, but would not decide. 'If we let this man pass
freely,' said they, 'he will have sworn falsely, and by the law, he
ought to die: and, if we hang him, he will verify his oath, and he,
having sworn the truth, ought to have passed unmolested as the law
ordains.' The case, my lord, is yet suspended, for the judges know not
how to act; and, therefore having heard of your lordship's great wisdom
and acuteness, they have sent me humbly to beseech your lordship on
their behalf, to give your opinion in so intricate and perplexing a
case."

"To deal plainly with you," said Sancho, "these gentlemen judges who
sent you to me might have saved themselves and you the labor; for I have
more of the blunt than the acute in me. However, let me hear your
question once more, that I may understand it the better, and mayhap I
may chance to hit the right nail on the head."

The man accordingly told his tale once or twice more, and when he had
done, the governor thus delivered his opinion: "To my thinking," said
he, "this matter may soon be settled; and I will tell you how. The man,
you say, swears he is going to die upon the gallows; and if he is
hanged, it would be against the law, because he swore the truth; and if
they do not hang him, why then he swore a lie, and ought to have
suffered."

"It is just as you say, my lord governor," said the messenger, "and
nothing more is wanting to a right understanding of the case."

"I say, then," continued Sancho, "that they must let that part of the
man pass that swore the truth and hang that part that swore the lie, and
thereby the law will be obeyed."

"If so, my lord," replied the stranger, "the man must be divided into
two parts; and thereby he will certainly die, and thus the law, which we
are bound to observe, is in no respect complied with."

"Harkee, honest man," said Sancho, "either I have no brains, or there is
as much reason to put this passenger to death as to let him live and
pass the bridge; for, if the truth saves him, the lie also condemns him,
and this being so, you may tell those gentlemen who sent you to me, that
since the reasons for condemning and acquitting him are equal, they
should let the man pass freely, for it is always more commendable to do
good than to do harm."

Sancho having plentifully dined that day, in spite of all the aphorisms
of Dr. Tirteafuera, when the cloth was removed in came an express with a
letter from Don Quixote to the governor. Sancho ordered the secretary to
read it to himself, and if there was nothing in it for secret perusal,
then to read it aloud. The secretary having first run it over,
accordingly, "My lord," said he, "the letter may not only be publicly
read, but deserves to be engraved in characters of gold; and thus it
is:--"

DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA TO SANCHO PANZA, GOVERNOR OF THE ISLAND OF
BARATARIA.

"When I expected to have had an account of thy carelessness and
blunders, friend Sancho, I was agreeably disappointed with news of thy
wise behavior,--for which I return thanks to Heaven, that can raise the
lowest from their poverty and turn the fool into a man of sense. I hear
thou governest with all discretion; and that, nevertheless, thou
retainest the humility of the meanest creature. But I would observe to
thee, Sancho, that it is often expedient and necessary, for the due
support of authority, to act in contradiction to the humility of the
heart. The personal adornments of one that is raised to a high situation
must correspond with his present greatness, and not with his former
lowliness. Let thy apparel, therefore, be good and becoming; for the
hedgestake, when decorated no longer, appears what it really is. I do
not mean that thou shouldst wear jewels or finery; nor, being a judge,
would I have thee dress like a soldier; but adorn thyself in a manner
suitable to thy employment. To gain the good-will of thy people, two
things, among others, thou must not fail to observe: one is, to be
courteous to all,--that, indeed, I have already told thee; the other is,
to take especial care that the people be exposed to no scarcity of food,
for, with the poor, hunger is, of all afflictions, the most
insupportable. Publish few edicts, but let those be good; and, above
all, see that they are well observed, for edicts that are not kept are
the same as not made, and serve only to show that the prince, though he
had wisdom and authority to make them had not the courage to insist upon
their execution. Laws that threaten and are not enforced become like
King Log, whose croaking subjects first feared, then despised him. Be a
father to virtue and a step-father to vice. Be not always severe, nor
always mild; but choose the happy mean between them, which is the true
point of discretion. Visit the prisons, the shambles, and the markets;
for there the presence of the governor is highly necessary. Such
attention is a comfort to the prisoner hoping for release; it is a
terror to the butchers, who then dare not make use of false weights; and
the same effect is produced on all other dealers. Shouldst thou
unhappily be secretly inclined to avarice, to gluttony, or women,--which
I hope thou art not,--avoid showing thyself guilty of these vices; for,
when those who are concerned with thee discover thy ruling passion, they
will assault thee on that quarter, nor leave thee till they have
effected thy destruction. View and review, consider and reconsider, the
counsels and documents I gave thee in writing before thy departure hence
to thy government, and in them thou wilt find a choice supply to sustain
thee through the toils and difficulties which governors must continually
encounter. Write to thy patrons, the duke and duchess, and show thyself
grateful, for ingratitude is the daughter of pride, and one of the
greatest sins; whereas, he who is grateful to those that have done him
service, thereby testifies that he will be grateful also to God, his
constant benefactor.

"My lady duchess has despatched a messenger to thy wife Teresa with thy
hunting-suit, and also a present from herself. We expect an answer every
moment. I have been a little out of order with a certain cat-clawing
which befell me, not much to the advantage of my nose; but it was
nothing, for if there are enchanters who persecute me, there are others
who defend me. Let me know if the steward who is with thee had any hand
in the actions of the Trifaldi, as thou hast suspected; and give me
advice, from time to time, of all that happens to thee, since the
distance between us is so short. I think of quitting this idle life very
soon, for I was not born for luxury and ease. A circumstance has
occurred which may, I believe, tend to deprive me of the favor of the
duke and duchess; but, though it afflicts me much, it affects not my
determination, for I must comply with the duties of my profession in
preference to any other claim; as it is often said, _Amicus Plato, sed
magis amica veritas_. I write this in Latin, being persuaded that thou
hast learned that language since thy promotion. Farewell, and God have
thee in His keeping; so mayst thou escape the pity of the world.

"Thy friend,

"DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA."

Sancho gave great attention to the letter; and it was highly applauded,
both for sense and integrity, by everybody that heard it. After that, he
rose from the table, and calling the secretary, went without any further
delay and locked himself up with him in his chamber, to write an answer
to his master, Don Quixote, which was as follows:--

SANCHO PANZA TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

"I am so taken up with business that I have not yet had time to let you
know whether it goes well or ill with me in this same government, where
I am more hunger-starved than when you and I wandered through woods and
wildernesses.

"My lord duke wrote to me the other day to inform me of some spies that
were got into this island to kill me; but as yet I have discovered none
but a certain doctor, hired by the islanders to kill all the governors
that come near it. They call him Dr. Pedro Rezio de Anguero, and he was
born at Tirteafuera. His name is enough to make me fear he will be the
death of me. This same doctor says of himself, that he does cure
diseases when you have them; but when you have them not, he only
pretends to keep them from coming. The physic he uses is fasting upon
fasting, till he turns a body to a mere skeleton; as if to be wasted to
skin and bones were not as bad as a fever. In short, he starves me to
death; so that, when I thought, as being a governor, to have plenty of
good hot victuals and cool liquor, and to repose on a soft feather-bed,
I am come to do penance like a hermit.

"I have not yet so much as fingered the least penny of money, either for
fees or anything else; and how it comes to be no better with me I cannot
imagine, for I have heard that the governors who come to this island are
wont to have a very good gift, or at least a very round sum given them
by the town before they enter. And they say, too, that this is the usual
custom, not only here but in other places.

"Last night, in going my rounds, I met with a mighty handsome damsel in
boy's clothes, and a brother of hers in woman's apparel. My
gentleman-waiter fell in love with the girl, and intends to make her
his wife, as he says. As for the youth, I have pitched on him to be my
son-in-law. To-day we both design to talk to the father, one Diego de la
Llana, who is a gentleman, and an old Christian every inch of him.

"I visit the markets as you advised me, and yesterday found one of the
hucksters selling hazel-nuts. She pretended they were all new; but I
found she had mixed a whole bushel of old, empty, rotten nuts among the
same quantity of new. With that I adjudged them to be given to the
hospital boys, who know how to pick the good from the bad, and gave
sentence against her that she should not come into the market for
fifteen days; and people said I did well.

"I am mighty well pleased that my lady duchess has written to my wife,
Teresa Pauza, and sent her the token you mention. It shall go hard but I
will requite her kindness one time or other. Pray give my service to
her, and tell her from me she has not cast her gift in a broken sack, as
something more than words shall show.

"If I might advise you, and had my wish, there should be no falling out
between your worship and my lord and lady; for, if you quarrel with
them, it is I must come by the worst for it. And, since you mind me of
being grateful, it will not look well in you not to be so to those who
have made so much of you at their castle.

"If my wife, Teresa Panza, writes to me, pray pay the postage and send
me the letter; for I have a mighty desire to know how fares it with her,
and my house and children. So Heaven protect your worship from
evil-minded enchanters, and bring me safe and sound out of this
government; which I very much doubt, seeing how I am treated by Doctor
Pedro Rezio.

"Your worship's servant,

"SANCHO PANZA, _the Governor_."


TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND, SANCHO PANZA.

"I received thy letter, dear Sancho of my soul, and I promise and swear
to thee, on the faith of a Catholic Christian, I was within two
finger-breadths of running mad with joy; and take notice, brother, when
I heard thou wast a governor, I had liked to have dropped down dead with
pure pleasure; for thou knowest they say sudden joy kills as well as
deadly sorrow.

"Thy hunting-suit lay before me, the string of corals sent by lady
duchess was tied round my neck, the letters were in my hand, and the
messenger in my presence; and yet I imagined and believed that all I saw
and handled was a dream, for who could conceive that a goatherd should
come to be governor of islands? Thou knowest, my friend, that my mother
said, 'One must live long to see a great deal.' This I mention because I
hope to see more if I live longer, for I do not intend to stop until I
see thee a farmer or collector of the revenue,--offices which, though
they carry those who abuse them to the devil, are, in short, always
bringing in the penny.

"My lady duchess will tell thee how desirous I am of going to court.
Consider of it, and let me know thy pleasure, for I will endeavor to do
thee honor there by riding in my coach.

"The curate, barber, bachelor, and even the sexton, cannot believe thou
art a governor, and say the whole is a deception or matter of
enchantment, like all the affairs of thy master, Don Quixote. Sampson
vows he will go in quest of thee, and drive this government out of thy
head, as well as the madness out of Don Quixote's skull. I say nothing,
but laugh in my own sleeve, look at my beads, and contrive how to make
thy hunting-suit into a gown and petticoat for our daughter. I have sent
some acorns to my lady duchess, and I wish they were of gold. Send me
some strings of pearls, if they are in fashion in thy island.

"The news of our town are these: the widow of the hill has matched her
daughter with a bungling painter, who came here and undertook all sort
of work. The corporation employed him to paint the king's arms over the
gate of the town-house. He asked them two ducats for the job, which they
paid beforehand; so he fell to it and worked eight days, at the end of
which he had made nothing of it, and said he could not bring his hand to
paint such trumpery, and returned the money; yet, for all that, he
married in the name of a good workman. The truth is, he has left his
brushes and taken up the spade, and goes to the field like a gentleman.
Pedro de Lobo's son has taken orders and shaved his crown, meaning to be
a priest. Minguilla, Mingo Silvato's niece, hearing of it, is suing him
upon a promise of marriage. We have had no olives this year, nor is
there a drop of vinegar to be had in all the town. A company of
foot-soldiers passed through here, and carried off with them three
girls. I will not say who they are; mayhap they will return, and
somebody or other marry them, with all their faults. Sanchica makes
bone-lace, and gets eight maravedis a day, which she drops into a
saving-box, to help her toward household stuff; but now that she is a
governor's daughter, she has no need to work, for thou wilt give her a
portion without it. The fountain in our market-place is dried up. A
thunderbolt fell upon the pillory, and there may they all alight! I
expect an answer to this, and about my going to court. And so God grant
thee more years than myself, or as many, for I would not willingly leave
thee behind me.

"Thy wife,

"TERESA PANZA."

To think that the affairs of this life are always to remain in the same
state is an erroneous fancy. The face of things rather seems continually
to change and roll with circular motion; summer succeeds the spring,
autumn the summer, winter the autumn, and then spring again. So time
proceeds in this perpetual round; only the life of man is ever hastening
to its end, swifter than time itself, without hopes to be renewed,
unless in the next, that is unlimited and infinite. For even by the
light of nature and without that of faith, many have discovered the
swiftness and instability of this present being, and the duration of the
eternal life which is expected.

  "I know St. Peter is well at Rome," meaning every one does
  well to follow the employment to which he was bred.

  Let no one stretch his feet beyond the length of his sheet.

  When thou art in Rome follow the fashions of Rome.

  Sweet is our love of native land.

  The prudent man who is expecting to be deprived of his
  habitation looks out for another before he is turned out of
  doors.

  Well-got wealth may meet disaster,
  But ill-got wealth destroys its master.

  Bread is relief for all kind of grief.

  We can bear with patience the ill-luck that comes alone.

  Man projects in vain,
  For God doth still ordain.

  As is the reason,
  Such is the season.

  Let no man presume to think
  Of this cup I will not drink.
  Where the flitch we hope to find,
  Not even a hook is left behind.

  Keep a safe conscience, and let people say what they will.

  It is as impracticable to tie up the tongue of malice as to
  erect barricades in the open fields.

"If a governor resigns his office in good circumstances, people say he
must have been an oppressor and a knave; and if poverty attends him in
his retreat, they set him down as an idiot and fool."

"For this time," answered Sancho, "I am certain they will think me more
fool than knave."

  The great Sancho Panza, the flower and mirror of all island
  governors.

  A law neglected is the same as if it had never been enacted.

  Give always to the cat
  What was kept for the rat,
  And let it be thy view
  All mischief to eschew.

  It is fitting that all who receive a benefit should show
  themselves grateful, though it be only a trifle.

SONG OF ALTISIDORA.

    Stay, cruel knight,
    Take not thy flight,
  Nor spur thy battered jade;
    Thy haste restrain,
    Draw in the rein,
  And hear a love-sick maid.
    Why dost thou fly?
    No snake am I,
  That poison those I love.
    Gentle I am
    As any lamb,
  And harmless as a dove.
    Thy cruel scorn
    Has left forlorn
  A nymph whose charms may vie
    With theirs who sport
    In Cynthia's court,
  Though Venus' self were by.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!

    Like ravenous kite
    That takes its flight
  Soon as't has stol'n a chicken,
    Thou bear'st away
    My heart, thy prey,
  And leav'st me here to sicken.
    Three night-caps, too,
    And garters blue,
  That did to legs belong
    Smooth to the sight
    As marble white,
  And faith, almost as strong.
    Two thousand groans,
    As many moans,
  And sighs enough to fire
    Old Priam's town,
    And burn it down,
  Did it again aspire.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!

    May Sancho ne'er
    His buttocks bare
  Fly-flap, as is his duty;
    And thou still want
    To disenchant
  Dulcinea's injured beauty.
    May still transformed,
    And still deformed,
  Toboso's nymph remain,
    In recompense
    Of thy offence,
  Thy scorn and cold disdain.
    When thou dost wield
    Thy sword in field,
  In combat, or in quarrel,
    Ill-luck and harms
    Attend thy arms,
  Instead of fame and laurel.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!

    May thy disgrace
    Fill every place,
  Thy falsehood ne'er be hid,
    But round the world
    Be tossed and hurled,
  From Seville to Madrid.
    If, brisk and gay,
    Thou sitt'st to play
  At ombre or at chess,
    May ne'er spadille
    Attend thy will,
  Nor luck thy movements bless.
    Though thou with care
    Thy corns dost pare,
  May blood the penknife follow;
    May thy gums rage,
    And naught assuage
  The pain of tooth that's hollow.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!

  Liberty is one of the most precious gifts which Heaven hath
  bestowed on man, exceeding all the treasures which earth
  encloses, or which ocean hides; and for this blessing, as
  well as for honor, we may and ought to venture life itself.
  On the other hand, captivity and restraint are the greatest
  evils that human nature can endure. I make this observation,
  Sancho, because thou hast seen the delicacies and the plenty
  with which we were entertained in that castle; yet, in the
  midst of those savory banquets and ice-cooled potations, I
  thought myself confined within the very straits of famine,
  because I did not enjoy the treat with that liberty which I
  should have felt had it been my own.

  Obligations incurred by benefits and favors received are
  fetters which hamper the free-born soul.

  Happy is he to whom Heaven hath sent a morsel of bread, for
  which he is obliged to none but Heaven itself.

  The man in wisdom must be old
  Who knows in giving where to hold.

  All times are not the same, nor equally fortunate; and those
  incidents which the vulgar call omens, though not founded on
  any natural reason, have, even by persons of sagacity, been
  held and deemed as fair and fortunate. One of these
  superstitious omen-mongers rises in the morning, goes
  abroad, chances to meet a friar belonging to the beatified
  St. Francis; and as if he had encountered a dragon in his
  way, runs back to his own house with fear and consternation.
  Another Foresight by accident scatters the salt upon the
  table, by which fear and melancholy are scattered through
  his heart; as if Nature was obliged to foretell future
  misfortunes by such trivial signs and tokens; whereas a
  prudent man and a good Christian will not so minutely
  scrutinize the purposes of Heaven. Scipio, chancing to fall
  in landing upon the coast of Afric, and perceiving that his
  soldiers looked upon this accident as a bad omen, he
  embraced the soil with seeming eagerness, saying, "Thou
  shalt not 'scape me, Afric, for I have thee safe in my
  arms."

  Love has no respect of persons, and laughs at the
  admonitions of reason; like Death, he pursues his game both
  in the stately palaces of kings and the humble huts of
  shepherds. When he has got a soul fairly in his clutches,
  his first business is to deprive it of all shame and fear.

  Beauty, they say, is the chief thing in love-matters.

"Hearken to me, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "there are two kinds of
beauty,--the one of the mind, the other of the body. That of the mind
shines forth in good sense and good conduct, in modesty, liberality, and
courtesy; and all these qualities may be found in one who has no
personal attractions; and when that species of beauty captivates, it
produces a vehement and superior passion. I well know, Sancho, that I am
not handsome, but I know also that I am not deformed; and a man of
worth, if he be not hideous, may inspire love, provided he has those
qualities of the mind which I have mentioned."

Of all the sins that men commit, though some say pride, in my opinion
ingratitude is the worst. It is truly said that hell is full of the
ungrateful. From that foul crime I have endeavored to abstain ever since
I enjoyed the use of reason; and if I cannot return the good offices
done me by equal benefits, I substitute my desire to repay them; and if
this be not enough, I publish them: for he who proclaims the favors he
has received would return them if he could. And generally the power of
the receiver is unequal to that of the giver, like the bounty of Heaven,
to which no man can make an equal return. But, though utterly unable to
repay the unspeakable beneficence of God, gratitude affords an humble
compensation suited to our limited powers.

  Lay a bridge of silver for a flying enemy.

  Let Martha die, so that she be well fed.

  He that has skill should handle the quill.

  There is no greater folly than to give way to despair.

  Patience often falls to the ground when it is over-loaded
  with injuries.

  Alexander the Great ventured to cut the Gordian knot, on the
  supposition that cutting would be as effectual as untying
  it, and, notwithstanding this violence, became sole master
  of all Asia.

  "Be not concerned," said Roque, addressing himself to Don
  Quixote, "nor tax Fortune with unkindness. By thus
  stumbling, you may chance to stand more firmly than ever;
  for Heaven, by strange and circuitous ways,
  incomprehensible to men, is wont to raise the fallen and
  enrich the needy."

  Oh, maddening sting of jealousy, how deadly thy effects!

  Justice must needs be a good thing, for it is necessary even
  among thieves.

  "Signor Roque," said he, "the beginning of a cure consists
  in the knowledge of the distemper and in the patient's
  willingness to take the medicines prescribed to him by his
  physician. You are sick; you know your malady, and God, our
  physician, is ready with medicines that, in time, will
  certainly effect a cure. Besides, sinners of good
  understanding are nearer to amendment than those who are
  devoid of it; and, as your superior sense is manifest be of
  good cheer and hope for your entire recovery. If in this
  desirable work you would take the shortest way and at once
  enter that of your salvation, come with me and I will teach
  you to be a knight-errant,--a profession, it is true, full
  of labors and disasters, but which, being placed to the
  account of penance, will not fail to lead you to honor and
  felicity."

  The abbot must eat that sings for his meat.

  Courtesy begets courtesy.

  The jest that gives pain is no jest.

  That pastime should not be indulged which tends to the
  detriment of a fellow-creature.

  The fire is discovered by its own light; so is virtue by its
  own excellence.

  No renown equals in splendor that which is acquired by the
  profession of arms.

  Virtue demands our homage wherever it is found.

  Women are commonly impatient and inquisitive.

  By a man's actions may be seen the true disposition of his
  mind.

"Body of me," said Don Quixote, "what a progress you have made, signor,
in the Tuscan language! I would venture a good wager that where the
Tuscan says _piace_, you say, in Castilian, _plaze_; and where he says
_piu_, you say _mas_; and _su_ you translate by the word _arriba_; and
_giu_ by _abaxo_."

"I do so, most certainly," quoth the author, "for such are the
corresponding words."

"And yet, I dare say, sir," quoth Don Quixote, "that you are scarcely
known in the world,--but it is the fate of all ingenious men. What
abilities are lost, what genius obscured, and what talents despised!
Nevertheless, I cannot but think that translation from one language into
another, unless it be from the noblest of all languages, Greek and
Latin, is like presenting the back of a piece of tapestry, where,
though the figures are seen, they are obscured by innumerable knots and
ends of thread, very different from the smooth and agreeable texture of
the proper face of the work; and to translate easy languages of a
similar construction requires no more talent than transcribing one paper
from another. But I would not hence infer that translating is not a
laudable exercise; for a man may be worse and more unprofitably
employed. Nor can my observation apply to the two celebrated
translators, Doctor Christopher de Figueroa, in his 'Pastor Fido,' and
Don John de Xaurigui, in his 'Aminta,' who, with singular felicity, have
made it difficult to decide which is the translation and which is the
original. But tell me, signor, is this book printed at your charge, or
have you sold the copyright to some bookseller?"

"I print it, sir, on my own account," answered the author, "and expect a
thousand ducats by this first impression of two thousand copies. At six
reals each copy they will go off in a trice."

"'Tis mighty well," quoth Don Quixote, "though I fear you know but
little of the tricks of booksellers, and the juggling there is amongst
them. Take my word for it, you will find a burden of two thousand
volumes upon your back no trifling matter, especially if the book be
deficient in sprightliness."

"What, sir!" cried the author, "would you have me give my labor to a
bookseller, who, if he paid me three maravedis for it, would think it
abundant, and say I was favored? No, sir, fame is not my object: of that
I am already secure. Profit is what I now seek, without which fame is
nothing."

"Well, Heaven prosper you, sir!" said the knight, who, passing on,
observed a man correcting a sheet of a book entitled "The Light of the
Soul." On seeing the title, he said, "Books of this kind, numerous as
they already are, ought still to be encouraged; for numerous are the
benighted sinners that require to be enlightened." He went forward, and
saw another book under the corrector's hand, and, on inquiring the
title, they told him it was the second part of the ingenious gentleman
Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by such a one, of Tordesillas.

"I know something of that book," quoth Don Quixote, "and, on my
conscience, I thought it had been burnt long before now for its
stupidity; but its Martinmas will come, as it does to every hog. Works
of invention are only so far good as they come near to truth and
probability; as general history is valuable in proportion as it is
authentic."

  Rashness is not valor; doubtful hopes ought to make men
  resolute, not rash.

  There is a remedy for all things except death.

  Between said and done
  A long race may be run.

  He whom Heaven favors may St. Peter bless.

  They that give must take.

  Where there are hooks, we do not always find bacon.

  Good expectation is better than bad possession.

  To-day for you, and to-morrow for me.

  He that falls to-day may rise to-morrow.

  Great hearts should be patient under misfortunes, as well as
  joyful when all goes well.

  I have heard say, she they call Fortune is a drunken,
  freakish dame, and withal so blind that she does not see
  what she is about; neither whom she raises, nor whom she
  pulls down.

  One thing I must tell thee, there is no such thing in the
  world as fortune; nor do the events which fall out, whether
  good or evil, proceed from chance, but from the particular
  appointment of Heaven,--and hence comes the usual saying,
  that every man is the maker of his own fortune.

  The faults of the ass should not be laid on the pack-saddle.

  When it rains let the shower fall upon my cloak.

  "Observe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a great deal
  of difference between love and gratitude. It is very
  possible for a gentleman not to be in love; but, strictly
  speaking, it is impossible he should be ungrateful."

  The sin will cease when the temptation is removed.

  The heart will not grieve for what the eye doth not
  perceive.

  What prayers can ne'er gain, a leap from a hedge may obtain.

  Proverbs are short maxims of human wisdom, the result of
  experience and observation, and are the gifts of ancient
  sages; yet the proverb which is not aptly applied, instead
  of being wisdom, is stark nonsense.

  It is the part of a good servant to sympathize with his
  master's pains.

  "Methinks," quoth Sancho, "that a man cannot be suffering
  much when he can turn his brain to verse-making."


SANCHO PANZA ON SLEEP.

"No entiendo eso," replied Sancho; "solo entiendo que en tanto que
duermo, ni tengo temor, ni esperanza, ni trabajo, ni gloria; y bien haya
el que inventó el sueño, capa que cubre todos los humanos pensamientos,
manjar que quita la hambre, agua que ahuyenta la sed, fuego que calienta
el frio, frio que templa el ardor, y finalmente moneda general con que
todas las cosas se compran, balanza y peso que iguala al pastor con el
rey, y al simple con el discreto. Sola una cosa tiene mala el sueño,
segun he oido decir, y es que se parece á la muerte, pues de un dormido
á un muerto hay muy poca diferencia."

"I know not what that means," replied Sancho; "I only know that while I
am asleep I have neither fear, nor hope, nor trouble, nor glory.
Blessings light on him who first invented sleep! Sleep 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 corse and a sleeping man there is no apparent
difference."

"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."

    Amor, cuando yo pienso
  En el mal que me das terrible y fuerte,
  Voy corriendo á la muerte,
  Pensando así acabar mi mal inmenso:

    Mas en llegando al paso,
  Que es puerto en este mar de mi tormento,
  Tanta alegría siento,
  Que la vida se esfuerza, y no le paso.

    Así el vivir me mata,
  Que la muerte me torna á dar la vida.
  O condicion no oida,
  La que conmigo muerte y vida trata!

  O love! when, sick of heart-felt grief,
    I sigh, and drag thy cruel chain,
  To death I fly, the sure relief
    Of those who groan in lingering pain.

  But coming to the fatal gates,
    The port in this my sea of woe,
  The joy I feel new life creates,
    And bids my spirits brisker flow.

  Thus dying every hour I live,
    And living I resign my breath.
  Strange power of love, that thus can give
    A dying life and living death!


  Till Heaven, in pity to the weeping world,
    Shall give Altisidora back to day,
  By Quixote's scorn to realms of Pluto hurled,
    Her every charm to cruel death a prey;
    While matrons throw their gorgeous robes away,
  To mourn a nymph by cold disdain betrayed:
    To the complaining lyre's enchanting lay
  I'll sing the praises of this hapless maid,
In sweeter notes than Thracian Orpheus ever played.

  Nor shall my numbers with my life expire,
    Or this world's light confine the boundless song:
  To thee, bright maid, in death I'll touch the lyre,
    And to my soul the theme shall still belong.
    When, freed from clay, the flitting ghosts among,
  My spirit glides the Stygian shores around,
    Though the cold hand of death has sealed my tongue,
  Thy praise the infernal caverns shall rebound,
And Lethe's sluggish waves move slower to the sound.


  Better kill me outright than break my back with other men's
  burdens.

  Sleep is the best cure for waking troubles.

  Devils, play or not play, win or not win, can never be
  content.

  History that is good, faithful, and true, will survive for
  ages; but should it have none of these qualities, its
  passage will be short between the cradle and the grave.

  As for dying for love, it is all a jest; your lovers,
  indeed, may easily say they are dying, but that they will
  actually give up the ghost, believe it--Judas.

"Madam," said he, "your ladyship should know that the chief cause of
this good damsel's suffering is idleness, the remedy whereof is honest
and constant employment. Lace, she tells me, is much worn in purgatory,
and since she cannot but know how to make it, let her stick to that;
for, while her fingers are assiduously employed with her bobbins, the
images that now haunt her imagination will keep aloof, and leave her
mind tranquil and happy. This, madam, is my opinion and advice."

"And mine, too," added Sancho, "for I never in my life heard of a
lacemaker that died for love; for your damsels that bestir themselves at
some honest labor think more of their work than of their sweethearts. I
know it by myself; when I am digging, I never think of my Teresa,
though, God bless her! I love her more than my very eyelids."


  Railing among lovers is the next neighbor to forgiveness.

  The ass will carry the load, but not a double load.

  When money's paid before it's due,
  A broken limb will straight ensue.

  Delay breeds danger.

  Pray to God devoutly,
  And hammer away stoutly.

  A sparrow in the hand is worth an eagle on the wing.

"No more proverbs, for God's sake," quoth Don Quixote, "for, methinks,
Sancho, thou art losing ground, and returning to _sicut erat_. Speak
plainly, as I have often told thee, and thou wilt find it worth a loaf
per cent to thee."

"I know not how I came by this unlucky trick," replied Sancho: "I cannot
bring you in three words to the purpose without a proverb, nor give you
a proverb which, to my thinking, is not to the purpose;--but I will try
to mend."

  The straw is too hard to make pipes of.

The knight and squire ascended a little eminence, whence they discovered
their village; which Sancho no sooner beheld than, kneeling down, he
said: "Open thine eyes, O my beloved country! and behold thy son, Sancho
Panza, returning to thee again, if not rich, yet well whipped! Open
thine arms, and receive thy son Don Quixote, too! who, though worsted by
another, has conquered himself, which, as I have heard say, is the best
kind of victory! Money I have gotten, and though I have been soundly
banged, I have come off like a gentleman."

"Leave these fooleries, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, "and let us go
directly to our homes, where we will give full scope to our imagination,
and settle our intended scheme of a pastoral life."

It must here be mentioned that Sancho Panza, by way of sumpter-cloth,
had thrown the buckram robe painted with flames, which he had worn on
the night of Altisidora's revival, upon his ass. He likewise clapped the
mitre on Dapple's head,--in short, never was an ass so honored and
bedizened. The priest and bachelor, immediately recognizing their
friends, ran toward them with open arms. Don Quixote alighted, and
embraced them cordially. In the mean time, the boys, whose keen eyes
nothing can escape, came flocking from all parts.

"Ho!" cries one, "here comes Sancho Panza's ass, as gay as a parrot, and
Don Quixote's old horse, leaner than ever!"

Thus, surrounded by the children and accompanied by the priest and the
bachelor, they proceeded through the village till they arrived at Don
Quixote's house, where, at the door, they found the housekeeper and the
niece, who had already heard of his arrival. It had likewise reached the
ears of Sancho's wife, Teresa, who, half-naked, with her hair about her
ears, and dragging Sanchica after her, ran to meet her husband; and
seeing him not so well equipped as she thought a governor ought to be,
she said: "What makes you come thus, dear husband? methinks you come
afoot and foundered! This, I trow, is not as a governor should look."

"Peace, wife," quoth Sancho; "the bacon is not so easily found as the
pin to hang it on. Let us go home, and there you shall hear wonders. I
have got money, and honestly, too, without wronging anybody."

"Hast thou got money, good husband? Nay, then, 't is well, however it
be gotten; for, well or ill, it will have brought up no new custom in
the world."

All things human, especially the lives of men, are transitory, ever
advancing from their beginning to their decline and final determination.

"The greatest folly," said Sancho, "that a man can commit in this world,
is to give himself up to death without any good cause for it, but only
from melancholy."


THE WILL OF DON QUIXOTE.

"I feel, good sirs," said Don Quixote, "that death advances fast upon
me. Let us then be serious, and bring me a confessor, and a notary to
draw up my will, for a man in my state must not trifle with his soul.
Let the notary be sent for, I beseech you, while my friend here, the
priest, is taking my confession."

The priest, having listened to his dying friend's confession, came out
of the room and told them that the good Alonzo Quixano was near his end,
and certainly in his right senses; he therefore advised them to go in,
as it was full time that his will should be made. 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 demeanor, 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 erroneous notions concerning
the existence and adventures of knights-errant."

"Gentlemen," said Don Quixote, "let us proceed fair and softly. I was
mad, I am now sane; I was Don Quixote de la Mancha; I am now, as
formerly styled, Alonzo Quixano the Good. And may my repentance and
sincerity restore me to the esteem you once had for me. Now let the
notary proceed.

"Item: I bequeath to Antonia Quixano, my niece, here present, all my
estate, real and personal, after the payment of all my debts and
legacies; and the first to be discharged shall be the wages due to my
housekeeper for the time she has been in my service, and twenty ducats
besides for a suit of mourning.

"I appoint for my executors signor the priest and signor bachelor
Sampson Carrasco, here present.

"Item: It is also my will that, if Antonia Quixano, my niece, should be
inclined to marry, it shall be only with a man who, upon the strictest
inquiry, shall be found to know nothing of books of chivalry; and, in
case it appear that he is acquainted with such books, and that my niece,
notwithstanding, will and doth marry him, then shall she forfeit all I
have bequeathed her, which my executors may dispose of in pious uses as
they think proper.

"And, finally, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, that if haply
they should come to the knowledge of the author of a certain history
dispersed abroad, entitled, 'The Second Part of the Achievements 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 ate her victuals,
the housekeeper drank to the repose of his soul, and even Sancho
cherished his little carcass; 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 out
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 achievements.


This was the end of that extraordinary gentleman of La Mancha, whose
birthplace Cid Hamet was careful to conceal, that all the towns and
villages of that province might contend for the honor of having produced
him, as did the seven cities of Greece for the glory of giving birth to
Homer. The lamentations of Sancho, the niece and the housekeeper, are
not here given, nor the new epitaphs on the tomb of the deceased knight,
except the following one, composed by Sampson Carrasco:--

  Here lies the valiant cavalier,
  Who never had a sense of fear:
  So high his matchless courage rose,
He reckoned death among his vanquished foes.

  Wrongs to redress, his sword he drew,
  And many a caitiff giant slew;
  His days of life though madness stained,
In death his sober senses he regained.


  FOOTNOTES

  [1] Rodrigo de Bivar, or the Cid, the national champion of
  Spain.

  [2] Some biographers have it that the house was in the Calle
  de Leon, afterwards the royal asylum, and that his wife and
  sister had belonged to the third order of St. Francis for
  seven years before his death.

  [3] Showing that Cervantes was familiar with the Bible as
  well as Latin classics.

  [4] Showing also his familiarity with Æsop.

  [5] The king's morsel is better than the lord's bounty.

  [6] Certain churches, with indulgences, appointed to be
  visited, either for pardon of sins, or for procuring
  blessings. Madmen, probably, in their lucid intervals, were
  obliged to this exercise.

  [7] "From a friend to a friend, a bug in the eye," is a
  proverb applied to the false professions of friendship.

  [8] Cervantes makes frequent use of Bible quotations.

  [9] A Sicilian, native of Catania, who lived in the latter
  part of the sixteenth century. He was commonly called
  Pesce-cola, or Fish-Nicholas, and is said to have lived so
  much in the water from his infancy, that he could cleave the
  waters in the midst of a storm like a marine animal.

  [10] _Zapateadores_: dancers that strike the soles of their
  shoes with the palms of their hands, in time and measure.

  [11] The phrase, _No quiero de tu capilla_, alludes to the
  practice of friars, who, when charity is offered, hold out
  their hoods to receive it, while they pronounce a refusal
  with their tongues.

  [12] The entire proverb is: "He whose father is mayor goes
  safe to his trial."

  [13] The proverb is: "To keep silence well is called
  _Santo_."

  [14] Jarvis's translation.

  [15] Trunk-hose were prohibited by royal decree shortly
  after the publication of _Don Quixote_.

  [16] It was customary for men of quality to wear a veil or
  mask depending from the covering worn on the head, in order
  to shield the face from the sun.


University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.





*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.



Home