Chapter XXVI: Book IV (11)

‘Mr. Canon,’ said the curate, interrupting him in this place, ‘the subject you have touched upon awakes in me an old grudge I have bore to our modern plays, even equal to that I entertain against books of chivalry. Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirrour of life, the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth; whereas, those that are represented in this age, are mirrours of absurdity, exemplars of folly, and pictures of lewdness; for sure nothing can be more absurd in a dramatick performance, than to see the person, who in the first scene of the first act, was produced a child in swaddling-cloaths, 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 Bulloign, 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 chace[121]. Again, if we consider those plays that are written on divine subjects, how many false miracles do they contain? how many apocryphal events misunderstood by the author, who frequently confounds the operations of one saint with those of another? Nay, in prophane subjects, they have the assurance to work miracles, for no other respect or consideration, but because they think such a miracle will make a very decent appearance in such a place; and, as they term it, attract the admiration of the vulgar, and bring them in crowds to the play: but all this redounds to the prejudice of truth, the contempt of history, and scandal of our Spanish wits; so that the authors of other nations, who punctually observe the unities of the drama, conclude that we are barbarous and ignorant, from our absurd and preposterous productions. Neither is it a sufficient excuse to say, that the intent of all well-governed commonwealths, in permitting publick plays to be acted, is to entertain the common people with some honest recreation, in order to divert those bad humours which idleness usually engenders; and that, since this end is answered by any play whatever, either good or bad, there is no occasion to cramp and limit the authors or actors to the just laws of composition; the purpose of the legislature being, as I have said, accomplished without any such restriction. To this suggestion I answer, that the same end, without any sort of comparison, will be much better answered by good than bad comedies; for, after having seen an artful and well-digested play represented, the hearer will go away, delighted with the comic parts, instructed by the serious, and agreeably surprized with the incidents; collecting information from the dialogue, precaution from the deceits of the fable, experience from the examples exhibited, affection for virtue, and indignation for vice. All these sensations, I say, will a good comedy excite in the spectator’s mind, let it be never so stupid and uncultivated; for of all impossibilities, it is the most impossible, that a comedy, thus perfect in all its parts, should not yield more entertainment, satisfaction, and delight, than one that is defective in each particular, as the greatest part of our modern pieces are. Neither is this want of correctness always to be laid to the author’s charge; for there are some poets among us who are perfectly well acquainted with the rules of writing, and could easily avoid any such errors of composition; but as their pieces are made for sale, they say, and it is very true, that the players would not purchase them, if they were of any other stamp; so that the author is fain to accommodate himself to the demand of the actor who pays him for his work. The truth of this observation evidently appears in a great number of comedies which have been composed by a most happy genius of these kingdoms[122], with so much wit, pleasantry, elegance of versification, genteel dialogue, sententious gravity, and finally, with such elocution and sublimity of stile, that the whole world resounds with his fame; yet in suiting himself to the false taste of the actors, he hath not been able to bring them all to the requisite point of perfection. Others again are so inconsiderate in their productions, that after representation, the players have been frequently obliged to fly and abscond for fear of chastisement, on account of having exhibited something to the prejudice of royal heads, or dishonour of noble families; now all these inconveniences, with many more that I do not chuse to mention, might be prevented, if there was at court some person of taste and learning, appointed to examine every dramatick performance before its appearance on the stage; and this precaution should affect not only the plays composed in Madrid, but all pieces whatever to be represented within the monarchy of Spain; for, without the approbation of this licencer, signed and sealed, no magistrate should allow any production to be acted within the bounds of his jurisdiction. In consequence of this expedient the actors would take care to submit every play to the censure of the examiner, that they might afterwards represent them with safety; and the authors would employ more caution and study in their compositions, knowing that they must pass the rigorous examination of an intelligent judge; in this manner, good comedies would be produced, and the aim of such writings happily accomplished, to the entertainment of the people, and the credit of Spanish wits; while the actors would represent them with security and advantage, and the state be exempted from the trouble of chastising such delinquents. And if the same licencer, or any other person, were invested with the charge of examining books of chivalry, before they see the light, some performances of that sort would certainly appear in all the perfection you have described, enriching our language with the delightful and precious treasure of eloquence; while the old romances would be entirely eclipsed by the light of the new, that would furnish rational amusement, not only for the idle, but also for those who are most industrious; seeing it is impossible for the bow to continue always bent, or that feeble nature can subsist without some innocent recreation.’

Thus far had the canon and curate proceeded in their conversation, when the barber coming up to them, said to his townsman, ‘Mr. Licentiate, this is the place in which I proposed to halt, that the oxen might have fresh pasture in abundance.’ The curate approved of the hint, and communicated their intention to the canon, who resolved to stay with them, being invited by the situation of a delicious valley that presented itself to his view; that he might therefore enjoy the agreeable spot, together with the conversation of the curate, for whom he had already conceived an affection, and be more particularly informed of Don Quixote’s exploits, he ordered his domesticks to proceed to an inn, which was not far off, and bring from thence victuals sufficient for the whole company; for he was resolved to spend the afternoon where he was. One of the servants told him that the sumpter-mule, which by that time had reached the inn, carried provision enough, and that they should want nothing but barley for the beasts. ‘If that be the case,’ said the canon, ‘carry the rest to the inn, and bring the sumpter-mule hither.’

Meanwhile Sancho perceiving that he might now speak to his master, without being overheard by the curate and barber, of whom he was suspicious, approached the cage, and thus addressed himself to the knight: ‘Truly, Sir, in order to disburthen my conscience, I must tell you something concerning this same inchantment. These people, with masks on their faces, are no other than the curate and barber of our town, who, I verily believe, have contrived to carry you off in this manner, out of pure envy and spite, because your worship has got the heels of them in your famous atchievements: now, this being supposed, it follows as plain as the nose upon my face, that you are not inchanted, but rather fooled and bamboozled. As a proof of which, I desire to ask you one question, which if you answer, as I do believe you will, your worship may clap your ten fingers on the trick, and perceive that you are not inchanted, but that your whole brain is turned topsy-turvy.’—‘Ask what you will, son Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will freely answer, and satisfy your doubts to the best of my power; with regard to your saying, that those who attend us are our friends and townsmen, the curate and barber, so indeed they may appear to your eye; but that they are really and effectually so, you must by no means believe: on the contrary, you are to conclude, that if they resemble our friends, the inchanters, who can assume what form they please, have taken that appearance and resemblance, to mislead your credit, and bewilder your imagination in such a labyrinth of perplexity, that even the clue of Theseus would not extricate your thoughts. Besides, they may have done it with a view of confounding my judgment, that I might not be able to guess from what quarter my misfortune proceeds; for, if on the one hand you affirm that I am attended by the barber and curate of our town; and on the other hand, I find myself encaged; though I am sensible that nothing but supernatural force could suffice to confine me thus, what would you have me say or think, but that the manner of my inchantment exceeds every thing I have read in all the histories that treat of inchanted knights? Wherefore set your heart at rest, and take it for granted, that these are as far from being the persons you have mentioned, as I am from being a Turk. With respect to thy desire of asking me questions, I repeat my promise of answering, even if thy interrogation should last till to-morrow morning.’—‘God’s blessed mother!’ cried the squire, with great vociferation, ‘is it possible that your worship can be so thick-skulled and brainless, as not to perceive the truth of what I alledge, and see that this imprisonment and misfortune is more owing to malice than inchantment? But seeing it is so, I will venture to prove, beyond all contradiction, that you are no more inchanted than my ass. Tell me, therefore, as God shall deliver you from this mischance, and as you hope to see yourself in the arms of my Lady Dulcinea, when you least expect any such good luck—’ ‘Truce with thy conjuration,’ said the knight, ‘and ask what thou wilt, I have already promised to answer with the utmost punctuality.’—‘That is my request,’ answered Sancho, ‘and what I want to know is, that your worship will tell me, without eking or curtailing God’s precious truth, but in honest simplicity of heart as it ought to be, and always is told those who, like your worship, profess the occupation of arms, under the title of knight-errants—’ ‘I tell thee,’ cried the knight, interrupting him, ‘I will not in the least prevaricate. Dispatch then, Sancho, for truly I am quite tired with so many salvos, solicitations, and preambles.’—‘I make so bold,’ replied the squire, ‘because I am well aware of my master’s goodness and sincerity, which being as it were to the purpose, I ask (with reverence be it spoken) whether or not, since you have been confined, and as you suppose inchanted in this cage, your worship hath felt any motion or desire to undam either way, as the saying is?’—‘I do not know what you mean by undamming,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘you must be more explicit, Sancho, if you expect an answer to the purpose.’—‘Is it possible,’ said the squire, ‘that your worship should be ignorant of the meaning of the word undamming, which is the first thing the boys learn at school? Well, then, you must know, I wanted to ask if you never had any inclination to do that which nobody else can do for you?’—‘Now I understand thee, Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘verily I have had divers calls of that nature, one of which is at present very importunate: pray fall upon some method to disembarrass me, for I believe all is not so sweet and clean as it ought to be.’

Footnote 120:

A Spanish proverb, applicable to a great many modern projectors and
reformers.

Footnote 121:

_Buscar gullirias_, signifies to seek dainties.

Footnote 122:

Lopez de Vega Carpio.

CHAP. XXII.
THE SAGE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA
AND HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE.

‘Ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘have I caught you at last? This is what I wanted to know with all my heart and soul: come on, Sir, there is no denying of what is commonly said, when any person is in the dumps, I know not what is the matter with such an one; he neither eats, drinks, nor sleeps, nor answers to the purpose, when he is spoke to; sure the man must be enchanted: from whence we are to conclude, that those who are inchanted neither eat, drink, sleep, nor do their natural occasions, as I have observed. But this is not the case with such as are disturbed with the inclination that your worship at present feels, drinking when they can get liquor, eating when they can lay hold on food, and giving plain answers to every question that is asked.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but I have already told thee, that there are different kinds of inchantment; and time may have so entirely altered the fashion, that those who are under the power of inchantment in this age, may, like me, retain the use of their faculties, though it was quite otherwise of old; so that there is no arguing or drawing consequences against the different practice of different times. I am sensible and certain of my being inchanted, and this is sufficient for the quiet of my conscience, which would give me great uneasiness if I had the least doubt about my fate, and allowed myself to be in this cage like an idle coward, deceitfully withholding my succour from a great number of the needy and oppressed, who at this very hour must be in the most absolute and extreme necessity, from the want of my aid and protection.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered the squire, ‘for your more abundant satisfaction, your worship, methinks, might try to escape from this prison; for my own part, I’ll be bound not only to give my assistance, but even to work your deliverance, and then you may endeavour to remount your trusty Rozinante, who trudges along as melancholy and sad as if he was inchanted also. This being performed, let us try our fate once more in quest of adventures; and if they do not turn out to our expectation, it will be time enough to return to the cage, in which I promise, on the faith of a true and loyal squire, to shut myself up with your worship, if perchance, through your ill fortune or my folly, this that I mention should not succeed.’—‘I am content to follow thy counsel, brother Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘and whenever thou shalt perceive a proper conjuncture for effecting my deliverance, I will implicitly obey thee in every thing, but thou wilt soon find thyself deceived in thy opinion of my mishap.’

This conversation between the knight-errant and the erring squire, lasted until they arrived at the place in which the curate, canon, and barber, who had already alighted, waited for them. The waggoner immediately unyoking his oxen, turned them loose in that verdant and delicious spot, the coolness of which was extremely inviting, not only to inchanted people like Don Quixote, but also to persons of intelligence and discretion like his squire, who besought the curate to let his master come out of the cage for a few minutes; because, without such permission, the prison would not be quite so clean as the decency of such a knight required. The curate, understanding what he meant, told him that he would willingly grant his request, were he not under some apprehension that his master, finding himself at liberty, would play one of his old pranks, and be gone where men should never see his face again. ‘I will be bound for his good behaviour,’ answered Sancho; ‘and I also,’ said the canon, ‘especially if he will promise, on the word of a knight, not to stir from our presence, until he shall have obtained our consent.’

‘I will,’ cried the knight (who overheard all that passed;) ‘the more so, as one, who, like me, is inchanted, cannot be at liberty to make use of his own person; for the inchanter can so utterly deprive him of all motion, that he shall not be able to stir from the place for three whole ages; and if he should make his escape, would whisk him back through the air in a twinkling.’ This being the case, he said they might very safely uncage him, especially as such indulgence would redound to the benefit of the whole company; for he protested that if they did not comply with his present necessities, he should be obliged to incommode their sense of smelling, unless they removed to a greater distance from the place of his confinement.

The canon, confiding in his word and honour, took him by the hands, tied as they were, and helped him to descend from his cage: then the knight, being infinitely rejoiced at his momentary deliverance, stretched every joint in his body, and going up to Rozinante, gave him a slap on the buttocks, saying, ‘I still hope in God and his blessed mother, thou flower and mirrour of steeds! that in a short time we shall both obtain our heart’s desire; thou prancing under the agreeable pressure of thy lord, and I mounted upon thy trusty back, exercising the employment for which Heaven sent me into the world.’ Having pronounced this apostrophe, he retired with Sancho to a remote place, from whence he returned much eased and comforted, and more desirous than ever of executing the project of his squire. The canon could not help gazing upon him, being struck with admiration at the strange unaccountable symptoms of his disorder; for in all his conversation and replies, he gave evident proofs of an excellent understanding, and never lost himself[123] except on the subject of chivalry, as we have formerly observed: he was therefore touched with compassion for his infirmity, and when the whole company were seated on the grass, waiting for the return of the sumpter-mule, addressed himself to the knight in this manner:

‘Is it possible, good Sir, that the idle and unlucky reading of books of chivalry can have so far impaired your judgment, as that you should now believe yourself inchanted, and give credit to other illusions of the same kind, which are as far from being true as truth is distant from falshood? Is it possible that the human understanding can suppose that ever this world produced that infinite number of Amadis’s, with the whole crowd of famous knights, so many emperors of Trebisond, Fleximarte’s of Hyrcania, palfreys, damsels, serpents, dragons, and giants; so many incredible adventures, inchantments of different kinds, battles, dreadful encounters, magnificence of apparel, enamoured princesses, squires created earls, witty dwarfs, billets, amorous expressions, valiant ladies, and finally, such extravagant events as are contained in books of knight-errantry? For my own part, when I read a performance of that sort, without reflecting that it is a legend of vanity and lyes, my imagination is a little amused; but as soon as I begin to consider it in the right point of view, I dash the volume against the wall, and would even commit it to the flames, (if I should chance to be near a fire) as a criminal richly deserving such punishment on account of its falshood and imposture, so contrary to nature, and bewildered from the track of common-sense, and as an inventor of new sects and preposterous ways of life, misleading and inducing the ignorant vulgar to believe the absurdities which it contains; nay, so presumptuous are such productions, as to disturb the minds of gentlemen of birth and education, as may be too plainly perceived by their effects upon you, Signior, whom they have reduced to such a pass as to make it necessary that you should be cooped up in a cage, and transported from place to place on a waggon, like a lion or tyger exhibited as a shew for money. Go to, Signior Don Quixote! have pity upon yourself, return into the bosom of discretion, and put those happy talents which Heaven hath been pleased to bestow upon you to a better use, employing your genius in other studies, which may redound to the increase of your honour, as well as to the good of your soul; or, if swayed by your natural inclination, you are still desirous of reading the histories of exploits and atchievements, you may have recourse to the book of Judges in the Holy Scripture, and there you will find real miracles of might, and actions equally valiant and true, Portugal produced a Viriatus, Rome a Cæsar, Carthage an Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a count Fernan Gonçales, Valencia a Cid, Andalousia a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a Diego Garcia de Paredes, Xerez a Garcia Perez de Vargas, Toledo a Garcilasso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon; the history of their valiant exploits will afford entertainment, instruction, surprize, and delight, to readers of the most sublime conception. Such study as this would be worthy of the good sense of Signior Don Quixote, who would thus become learned in history, enamoured of virtue, improved in worth, bettered in morals, brave without rashness, cautious without cowardice; while the whole would redound to the honour of God, his own particular emolument, and the renown of La Mancha, from whence I understand his family and origin is derived.’

Don Quixote listened with infinite attention to his harangue; and even after he perceived it was finished, looked stedfastly at the canon for some time, before he answered in these words: ‘Signior Hidalgo, if I am not mistaken, the scope of your discourse was to convince me that there never were knights-errant in this world; that all the books of chivalry are false, deceitful, unprofitable, nay mischievous, in a commonwealth; that I have been much to blame in reading, more so in believing, and most of all in imitating, the characters they describe, by following the most painful profession of knight-errantry; and, lastly, you deny that ever there was an Amadis, either of Gaul or Greece, or that any one of that vast number of knights recorded in those writings had any real existence.’—‘You have exactly summed up my allegations,’ said the canon. ‘You were likewise pleased to add,’ resumed the knight, ‘that such books had done me infinite prejudice, impaired my judgment, and reduced me to the necessity of being confined in a cage; and that I would do well to amend and alter my course of studies, and to use performances which contain more truth, instruction, and delight.’—‘That,’ said the canon, ‘was my precise meaning.’—‘Why, then,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘in my opinion the person impaired in his judgment, and inchanted, is no other than your worship, who have presumed to utter such blasphemies against an order so well received in the world, and established as truth, that he who like you denies it deserves the same punishment you inflicted upon those books that gave you disgust; for, to say that there never was such a person as Amadis, or any other of those adventurous knights with whom history abounds, is like an endeavour to persuade people that frost is not cold, that the sun yields no light, and the earth no sustenance. Will any earthly eloquence make a man believe, that the story of the infanta Floripes, and Guy of Burgundy, is false; or that of Fierabras, with the bridge of Mantible, which happened in the time of Charlemagne, and I vow to God is as true as that the sun shines at noon-day? If this be a lye, you may also affirm that there never was such an event as the Trojan war, nor such persons as Hector and Achilles, or the Twelve Peers of France, or Arthur King of England, who to this day survives in the likeness of a raven, and is every moment expected to reascend his throne. People may as well venture to say, that the history of Guarino Mesquino, and the suit of St. Grial, are pure fiction; and look upon the amours of Don Tristan and Queen Iseo, with those of Ginebra and Lancelot, as altogether apocryphal; though there are people who almost remember to have seen the Duenna Quintanona, who was the best wine-skinker in Great Britain: this is so true, that I myself have heard my grandmother by the father’s side often say, when she happened to see a Duenna with a reverend biggen[124], “Grandson, there is a person very like the Duenna Quintanona.” From whence I conclude, that she must either have known her personally, or at least seen some picture of that venerable matron. Then, who can deny the history of Peter of Provence and the fair Magalona, since, to this day, may be seen in the royal armoury the very peg that turned the wooden horse upon which the valiant Peter travelled through the air; by the same token, that it is something larger than the pole of a coach, and stands near the saddle of Babieca. Nay, at Roncevalles you may see Orlando’s horn, as big as a weaver’s beam. From all which circumstances we may justly infer, that the Twelve Peers, the Peters, the Cids, with all those who were called knights-errant, actually existed, according to the records of their fame; otherwise they may as well deny that the valiant Portuguese, Juan de Merlo, was a knight-errant; though it is well known, that he went to Burgundy and fought in the city of Ras, with the famous lord of Charne, called Monseigneur Pierre, and afterwards in the city of Basil, with Monseigneur Henrique de Remestan; gaining the victory in each of these combats, with abundance of honourable fame. Neither, I suppose, will they credit the defiance and adventures that were also atchieved in Burgundy, by those valiant Spaniards, Pedro Barba and Guttierre Quixada, (from whom I am lineally descended on the father’s side) who conquered the sons of the Count de St. Paul: nay, let them likewise refuse to own that Don Fernando de Guevara went in quest of adventures into Germany, where he fought with Messire George, a knight of the houshold to the Duke of Austria; and say that the justs and tournaments at Suero de Quinones, and the pass, were mere illusion, as well as the enterprizes of Monseigneur Lewis de Falses, against Don Gonçalo de Guzman, a Castilian knight, together with many other exploits performed by Christian warriors belonging to these and other foreign realms, so authentick and true, that (I repeat my asseveration) he who denies them is void of all reason and common sense.’

The canon was struck with admiration, when he heard Don Quixote utter such a medley of fiction and truth; and perceiving that he was intimately acquainted with every circumstance regarding and concerning the atchievements of knight-errantry, answered him in these words: ‘Signior Don Quixote, I cannot deny but what you have said is partly true, particularly that which regards the Spanish knights; I grant also that there was an order called the Twelve Peers of France, but cannot believe that they performed all those exploits recounted by archbishop Turpin; for the truth is, they were a set of knights chosen by the kings of France, under the title of the Twelve Peers, because they were all equal in point of virtue, rank, and valour; at least, if they were not, they ought to have been possessed of this parity of qualifications; for it was an association resembling the modern orders of St. Jago and Calatrava, which suppose, that every member is valiant, virtuous, and noble; and as we now say a knight of St. Juan or Alcantara, in those days they said a knight of the Twelve Peers; because those who professed that military order were equal in all respects, and twelve in number; that there were such persons as the Cid and Bernardo del Carpio, I make no question; but whether or not they performed all those exploits which are ascribed to them, is, I believe, extremely doubtful; with respect to the peg of Count Peter, which you say stands by the saddle of Babieca in the royal armoury, to my shame be it spoken, I am either so ignorant or short-sighted, that although I have seen the saddle, I could never observe the peg, large as you have been pleased to describe it.’—‘But there it certainly is,’ replied the knight; ‘and what makes it the more remarkable, it is said to be kept in a case of calves leather, that it may not rust.’—‘It may be so,’ said the canon; ‘but, by my holy orders! I do not remember to have seen any such thing; yet, granting it to be in that place, I am not therefore bound to believe the stories that are recounted of so many Amadis’s, and such a rabble of knights; nor is it reasonable, that a person of honour, like you, endowed with so many happy talents, should give credit to such extravagant rhodomontades as are related in the lying legends of knight-errantry.’

Footnote 123:

Literally, ‘Never lost the stirrup.’

Footnote 124:

_Toca_, which is the original word, signifies a woman’s coif, veil, or
handkerchief.

CHAP. XXIII.
OF THE SAGE CONTEST BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
AND THE CANON—WITH OTHER EVENTS.

‘A good jest, truly,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that books printed with the licence of kings, and approbation of those who are appointed to examine them, read with universal delight, celebrated by great and small, rich and poor, knights and plebeians, the learned and illiterate; finally, by persons of all ranks and degrees whatever; should contain nothing but lyes; notwithstanding the appearance of truth which they maintain, in mentioning the father, mother, country, relations, condition, birth-place; and in giving an exact journal of the exploits peculiar to every individual knight; cease, therefore, good Sir, to vent such blasphemy, and believe that in this particular, I advise you to act according to the dictates of good sense: read them again, and you will see what pleasure you will reap for your pains; for what can be more entertaining than to see, as it were, before our eyes, a vast lake of boiling pitch, through which an infinite number of serpents, snakes, and alligators, with many other kinds of fierce and terrible creatures, are continually winding and writhing along; then to hear a most dismal voice that seems to issue from the middle of this pitchy pool, pronounce, “O knight, whosoever thou art, that now standest gazing at the dreadful lake, if thou wouldst enjoy the bliss that is concealed beneath these sable waves, display the valour of thy dauntless breast, and dart thyself amidst these black and burning billows; otherwise, thou art not worthy to behold the mighty wonders deposited and contained within the seven castles of the seven nymphs, that dwell below this sullen flood.” Scarce hath the sound of this dismal voice ceased to vibrate on his ear, when the knight, without the least hesitation, or reflecting upon the danger he incurs, nay, without putting off his heavy armour, but recommending himself to God and his mistress, plunges at once into the burning lake; and when he neither cares nor knows what will be his fate, finds himself in the midst of a delightful plain, by which the Elysian fields are infinitely excelled: there the heaven seems more transparent, and the sun shines with new lustre; the eye is entertained with an agreeable forest of tall and leafy trees, whose verdure delights the view; while the ear is regaled with the sweet and artless notes of an infinite number of little painted warblers that hop from bough to bough; here he perceives a brook, whose refreshing waters, clear as liquid chrystal, run murmuring on the yellow sand, and glistening pebbles, that emulate the purest pearls, and heaps of sifted gold.

‘In one place springs an artificial fountain adorned with variegated jasper and polished marble; in another rises a rustick grotto, in which the small shells of the mussel, and the white and yellow twisted domes of the snail, placed in beauteous disorder, and mixed with bits of shining chrystal and counterfeit emeralds, compose such an agreeable variety, that nature seems to be excelled by imitative art. In a third place, all of a sudden, appears a strong castle or magnificent palace, the walls of massy gold, the battlements of diamond, the gates of hyacinth, and, finally, the workmanship so admirable, as infinitely to excel the materials, which are no less than adamant, carbuncles, rubies, pearls, emeralds, and gold. Nay, after having thus feasted his eyes, there still remains for him to see a fair bevy of damsels coming out at the castle gate, dressed in such gay and splendid attire, that were I to describe it minutely, as it is represented in the history, I should never have done. Then she who appears the principal, takes by the hand the undaunted knight, who threw himself into the boiling-lake, and silently leading him into the rich castle or palace, strips him as naked as he was when his mother bore him, and bathes him in water of an agreeable temperature, then anoints his whole body with aromatick essences, and puts upon him a shirt of the finest lawn, all scented and perfumed; then comes another damsel, and throws over his shoulders a mantle, which, at least, is usually valued at the price of a whole city, or more. After all this ceremony, what a sight it is, when, as they relate, he is conducted into another hall, in which a table is furnished with such elegance as to excite his admiration and suspense! when they sprinkle upon his hands water distilled from amber and odoriferous flowers! when he is seated upon a chair of ivory, and attended by all those damsels, who serve him in amazing silence! when he is allured by such a variety of dishes, and so savourily cooked, that the appetite is confounded in its choice! Then to hear musick during his repast, without seeing the minstrel, or knowing from whence the sounds proceeds; and, after he has refreshed himself, and the table is uncovered, while he lolls at ease upon his chair, perhaps picking his teeth, according to custom, he is surprized with the sight of another young lady, much more beautiful than any of the former, who enters the hall, and sitting down by the knight, begins to tell him whose castle that is, and how she is inchanted within it, relating other circumstances which create wonder in him, and raise the admiration of those who read the story. I need not farther expatiate on this subject, since, from what hath been said, it plainly appears, that any part whatever of the history of any knight-errant whatever, must yield pleasure and surprize to any reader whatsoever. Believe me, therefore, good Sir, and as I have already hinted, take the trouble of reading those books, and you will see what effectual antidotes they are against melancholy, and how they improve the disposition, when it is bad. For my own part I can safely aver, that since I professed the order of knight errantry, I have been valiant, courteous, liberal, well-bred, generous, civil, daring, good-humoured, and a patient endurer of toils, captivities, and inchantment; and though I so lately found myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope, by the valour of this my arm, provided Heaven shall favour, and fortune cease to oppose me, in a few days to see myself sovereign of some kingdom, when I shall be enabled to demonstrate the gratitude and generosity which reside within my breast; for, truly, Signior, a poor man is incapable of exerting the virtue of liberality, let him possess it in never so eminent a degree; and that gratitude which is restrained to good-will alone, is like faith without works, no more than the ghost of virtue. Wherefore I wish fortune would speedily furnish me with an opportunity of making myself an emperor, that I may exercise the virtues of my heart, in bestowing benefits on my friends, especially on my poor squire Sancho Panza, one of the best men in the world, whom I intend to create an earl, in consequence of a promise which he obtained from me long ago, though I fear he wants capacity to manage his estate.’

These last words being overheard by Sancho, he said to his master, ‘Signior Don Quixote, I wish you would take the trouble to give me that same earldom, which is as firmly promised by your worship as expected by me, and I will undertake to find ability to manage it; or, if I should find myself at a loss, I have heard it often said, that there are certain persons who farm the estates of great noblemen at so much a year, and take charge of the whole, while the owner lolls at his ease, enjoying his income, without troubling his noddle about any other affairs. Now, I would live in the very same manner, minding the cares of this world as little as possible; but leaving off all sorts of business, enjoying my rents, like any duke, and let the world wag.’—‘Brother Sancho,’ said the canon, ‘that is to be understood only of the spending your income; but the lord of a great estate must have regard to the administration of justice, which requires ability, sound judgment, and principally an upright intention; for if this be wanting in the beginning, the middle and end will always be involved in error; and therefore Heaven usually assists the righteous intent of the simple, while it confounds the wicked aims of the cunning.’—‘I know nothing of these philosophies,’ answered the squire; ‘but this I know, that I wish to God I had this earldom, as soon as I should find understanding to manage it; for I have as big a soul as my neighbours, and as much body as he that has more; and would be as much a king in my own estate, as any he that wears a head: and so being, I would do what I pleased; and doing what I pleased, I should please myself; and pleasing myself, I should be satisfied; and in being satisfied, I should have nothing more to desire; and having nothing more to desire, there would be an end; so let the earldom come a God’s name! I wish we could see it, as one blind man said to another.’—‘These are no bad philosophies, as you call them, Sancho,’ said the canon; ‘but, for all that, there is much to be said on the subject of earldoms.’—‘I know not what more can be said,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for my own part, I do no more than follow the example transmitted to me by the great Amadis de Gaul, who created his squire earl of the Firm Island; and therefore I may, without scruple of conscience, bestow the same honour on Sancho Panza, who is one of the best squires that ever served knight-errant.’

The canon was amazed at the methodical madness of Don Quixote, manifested in his description of the Knight of the Lake; and in the impression which the false adventures of chivalry had made upon his imagination; neither was his wonder diminished, when he considered the folly of Sancho, who so ardently desired the possession of that island which his master had promised to give him, as the reward of his services.

By this time the canon’s servants had returned from the inn, with the sumpter-mule; and, instead of a table, spread a carpet on the green grass, under the shade of some trees, where the company seating themselves all round, went to dinner, that the waggoner might not lose the opportunity of such a convenient situation as we have already observed. While they thus enjoyed themselves, their ears were struck with a sudden noise, and the sound of a bell, issuing from the midst of some briars and thickets that surrounded the place where they sat; and immediately appeared a beautiful she-goat, her skin speckled with spots of white, black, and grey, followed by the goatherd; who, in his rustick dialect, called to her to stop and return to the fold. The fugitive goat trembling with affright, came towards the company, and there stopped, as if to implore their protection; while her keeper, seizing her by the horns, accosted her in these words, as if she had been possessed of sense and understanding; ‘Ah! you spotted wanton, what a rambler you have become of late; the wolves will feast upon you one day; what is the matter with you, my pretty child? Yet what else can it be but that you are a female, and consequently inconstant! a plague upon your disposition, and all those you resemble: return, return, my darling; and if you are not so happy, at least you will be more secure, in the fold among your companions! for if you, who ought to watch over and guide the rest, stray about in this imprudent manner, what must become of them?’

These words of the goatherd diverted those who heard them, especially the canon, who said to him, ‘I beseech you, brother, to pacify yourself, and be not in such a hurry to drive back your goat, which being a female, as you observe, will follow her natural disposition, in spite of all you can do to oppose it. Take this morsel, and assuage your choler with a cup of wine, and in the mean time the goat will repose herself.’

So saying, he presented to him, on the point of a fork, the hind-quarter of a cold rabbit, which was thankfully accepted by the goatherd; who having taken a long draught, and composed himself, said to the company, ‘Gentlemen, you must not take me for a simpleton, because I talk to this animal as if it were a rational creature; for really there is a mystery concealed beneath the words I have uttered. I am a peasant, ’tis true, yet not so rustick but that I know how to converse with men as well as beasts.’—‘I firmly believe what you say,’ replied the curate; ‘for I myself have experienced that the mountains produce learned men, and that philosophers are to be found within the shepherd’s cot.’—‘At least,’ resumed the goatherd, ‘the cottage may contain those who are warned by woeful experience; and to convince you feelingly that what I alledge is true, I, though undesired, and self-invited, saving the good pleasure of this good company, entreat a moment’s hearing, while I recount a true story, which will confirm what that gentleman,’ pointing to the curate, ‘and myself have observed.’

To this proposal Don Quixote replied, ‘As this affair seems to bear something of the shadow of an adventure, I for my part will gladly give you the hearing, brother, and so will all those gentlemen who are persons of taste, and lovers of curious novels, that surprize, delight, and entertain the sensible hearer, for I hope your story will certainly produce these agreeable effects: begin then, friend, we are all attention.’—‘By your leave,’ cried Sancho, ‘I will e’en betake myself with this piece of pasty to yonder brook, and lay in store for three days; for I have heard my master Don Quixote observe, that the squire of a knight-errant ought to eat as often and as much as he can; because they are frequently so bewildered in woods and forests, that it will take them six whole days to disengage themselves; and if a man’s belly or his bags be not well lined with provision, there he may stay, as he often does, till he withers into perfect mummy.’—‘You are in the right, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘go where you will, and eat as much as you please; for my own part, my grosser appetite is satisfied, and now I want refreshment for the mind, which I shall enjoy in listening to this honest countryman’s story.’—‘We shall all share in the repast,’ replied the canon, who intreated the peasant to perform his promise.

Then the goatherd gave the goat, which he held by the horns, two slaps on the buttocks, saying, ‘Lie down by my side, you speckled Nanny; we shall have time enough to return to the fold.’ The creature seemed to understand his meaning, for he was no sooner set than she lay down very quietly, and looking in his face, gave him to understand that she was attentive to what he was going to say; upon which he began his story in these words.

CHAP. XXIV.
THE STORY WHICH THE GOATHERD RECOUNTED
TO THE CONDUCTORS OF DON QUIXOTE.

‘Three leagues from this valley stands a village, which though small, is one of the richest in all this country; and therein dwelt a farmer in great repute: and albeit respect follows worldly wealth, he was more beloved for his virtue than respected for his riches; but what he regarded as the best part of his good fortune, (as he himself was wont to say) was a daughter he had, of such exceeding beauty, rare discretion, modesty, and grace, that every one who saw and knew her, marvelled at the happy talents with which Heaven and nature had enriched her body and her soul. In the cradle she was handsome, and continually increased in beauty, till at the age of sixteen she was a most inchanting creature: the fame of her charms began to spread over all the neighbouring villages; but what need I say the neighbouring villages! it extended to distant cities, and even made its way into the king’s court, filling the ears of all sorts of people, who came from all parts to see her, as if she had been some great curiosity, or miracle-working image. Her father watched over her with great care, and she took great care of herself; for, truly, a maiden’s own prudent reserve is a better guard upon her conduct than all the bolts and spies, and padlocks upon earth. The father’s wealth, and the daughter’s beauty, moved a great many people, both of town and country, to demand her in marriage; but he, like one who has the disposal of a rich jewel, was perplexed in his mind, and could not determine in favour of any one of the infinite number that solicited his consent. Among the crowd of her suitors, I was one who conceived great and flattering hopes of success, because her father knew me to be his townsman, of an honest family, in the flower of my age, rich in wealth, and in point of understanding not very poor. She was also courted by another young man of our town, who was in every respect my equal; so that her father was perplexed, and wavered in his choice, because he thought his daughter would be well bestowed upon either of us; wherefore, in order to deliver himself from this suspence, he resolved to communicate our demands to Leandra, (for that is the name of this wealthy maiden, who hath made me miserable) and since we were equal in all qualifications, to refer the whole affair to the choice and decision of his beloved daughter. An example worthy to be followed by every father in the settlement of his children: not that I would have parents leave them to their own choice, in things that are manifestly wicked and base; but first propose a number of prudent schemes, out of which they may be allowed to fix upon that which is most to their liking. I know not to which of us Leandra gave the preference; this only I know, that her father put us off, on pretence of his daughter’s tender years, in general terms, which neither laid him under any obligation nor gave us any cause of complaint. I think proper to tell you, that I am called Eugenio, and my rival Anselmo, that you may be acquainted with the names of the persons principally concerned in this tragedy, which is still depending; though one may easily foresee, that it must have a melancholy end.