Chapter XXVII: Book IV (12)

‘But, to return to my story: just about that time, there came to our town one Vincent de La Rosa, the son of a poor labouring man that lived in the village: this Vincent, who was just returned from being a soldier in Italy, and other foreign parts, had been carried away, when he was a boy about twelve years of age, by a captain that chanced to march through the town with his company; and now, after an absence of another dozen of years, he returned, in the garb of a soldier, pinked up in a thousand colours, and bedecked with a power of glass toys and slender-chains of steel. To-day he dressed himself out in one gay suit, to-morrow in another: but all his finery and gewgaws were of little weight or value. The labouring people, who are naturally malicious, nay, when idleness gives them opportunity, downright malice itself, observed and took an exact account of all his ornaments and fine apparel, and found that he had no more than three suits of different colours, with garters and hose; but he found means to disguise them by such inventions, that one who had not been at the pains to detect him, would have sworn that he had appeared in more than ten different dresses, and in upwards of twenty plumes of feathers; and you must not think it impertinent or foolish in me to give you this account of his cloaths, because they bear a considerable share in the story. He used to seat himself upon a stone, under a tall poplar that grew in our market-place, and there keep us all gaping around him at the exploits which he recounted; if you would take his word for it, there was not a country on the face of the earth, which he had not seen, nor a battle in which he had not served: he had killed a greater number of Moors than ever Tunis or Morocco produced; and, by his own account, fought more single combats than were ever maintained by Gante, Luna, Diego Garcia de Paredez, and a thousand more whom he named, gaining the victory in each, without losing one single drop of his blood; then he would shew the marks of wounds, which though not to be distinguished, he gave us to understand were the effects of musket-shot he had received in different actions and encounters; finally, with incredible arrogance, he used to _thou_ his own equals, even those who knew his extraction, and say that his own arm was his father, his family the work of his own hands, and being a soldier, he owed nothing even to the king himself: with all his boasting, he knew something of musick, and could thrum upon the guittar so as that some people said he made it speak. But his talents did not end here; for he was also a piece of a poet, and wrote ballads a league and a half long, upon every silly trifle that happened in the village. Well, then, this soldier whom I have described, this Vincent de La Rosa, this braggadocio, this gallant, this musician, and poet, was often seen and observed by Leandra from the window of her apartment, that looked towards the market-place. She was captivated by the tinsel of his gaudy cloaths, and inchanted by his ballads; for he gave away twenty copies of each that he composed; the feats he related of himself, reached her ears: in short, (as the devil himself must certainly have ordained) she fell in love with him, even before he had the presumption to make any attempt upon her heart; and, as in the affairs of love every thing is easily accomplished by the man who is already in possession of the woman’s affection, Leandra and Vincent soon came to a right understanding; and before any one of her numerous admirers had the least inkling of her inclination, she had already gratified it, by leaving the house of her loving and indulgent father, (mother she had none) and running away with the soldier, who triumphed in that enterprise, and more effectually than in any one he had ever undertaken.

‘This event filled not only the whole village, but likewise all who heard of it, with admiration: I, for my part, was amazed, Anselmo astonished, the father overwhelmed with sorrow, and the relations with shame. Justice, however, being solicited, the troopers immediately took the road, examined every copse and thicket thereabouts, and after a search of three days, found the giddy Leandra in the cave of a mountain, naked to the smock, and stripped of a great quantity of money and precious jewels, which she had carried off when she made her escape. When she was brought back to the presence of her afflicted father, and questioned about her misfortune, she frankly owned that Vincent de La Rosa had imposed upon her; that under promise of marriage, he had persuaded her to forsake her father’s house, promising to conduct her to Naples, which he said, was the most beautiful and flourishing city in the whole world; that she inadvertently and fondly believed his false professions, and robbing her father, put herself under his protection that same night she was missed, when he carried her to a rocky mountain, and confined her in the cave where she was found: she likewise affirmed that the soldier, without making any attempt upon her virtue, had stripped her of all she had, and left her in that forlorn condition; a circumstance that surprized all who heard it, the soldier’s continence being so incredible; but she insisted upon it with such earnest asseverations, that the disconsolate father was in some sort comforted, making little account of the money he had lost, since his daughter was allowed to keep the jewel which when once lost there is no hope of retrieving.

‘The same day that Leandra appeared, her father removed her from our eyes, and shut her up in a monastery of a neighbouring town, hoping that time would efface some part of the bad opinion his daughter had incurred. The tender years of Leandra served as an excuse for her misconduct, especially with those who are not concerned in the affair; but those who know her discretion and good sense, do not ascribe her fault to ignorance, but to mere levity, and the natural disposition of women, which is always injudicious and imperfect. Leandra being thus secured, Anselmo’s eyes were blind to every thing that could yield him pleasure; and mine remained in darkness, without the least glimpse of light to direct them to any agreeable object: the absence of Leandra increased our affliction, and exhausted our patience; we cursed the soldier’s finery, and exclaimed against her father’s want of care. At length we agreed to quit the village, and repair to this valley, where he feeding a vast flock of sheep, which are his own property, and I tending a numerous fold of goats, which are also mine, we spend our lives under the cool shade of lofty trees, and give vent to our passion, either by singing, in concert, the praise or dispraise of the beautiful Leandra, or each by himself singing in the lonely grove, and ejaculating his complaint to Heaven. In imitation of us, many more of Leandra’s lovers have betaken themselves to these rugged mountains, and the exercise of the same employment; so that this spot seems to be transformed into a pastoral Arcadia, every field being crouded with shepherds and folds, and every corner resounding with the name of the fair Leandra. One curses and calls her fickle, inconstant, and immodest; a second condemns her credulity and lightness of behaviour; a third acquits and forgives her, while she is arraigned and reproached by a fourth; some celebrate her beauty; others find fault with her disposition: in short, she is censured and adored by them all; nay, to such a pitch hath their extravagance risen, that some of them complain of her disdain, though they never spoke to her; and others, in their lamentations, pretend to feel the rage of jealousy, which is a passion she never inspired; for, as I have already mentioned, her fault was known before her inclination was suspected: there is not the hollow of a rock, the margin of a rill, nor the shade of a tree, that is not occupied by some shepherd, recounting his misfortune to the winds; wherever an echo can be formed, it repeats the name of Leandra; the hills resound with Leandra; the rivulets murmur Leandra; in short, Leandra keeps us all inchanted and perplexed, hoping we know not how, and dreading we know not what. Among the wrong-headed society, he that shews the least, though he has the greatest share of judgment, is my rival Anselmo; who, notwithstanding all the cause he has to be dissatisfied, complains of absence only, turning his lamentation to the sound of the rebeck, which he touches with admirable skill, in verses that shew the excellence of his genius. I follow a more easy, and in my opinion, a wiser course, namely, to inveigh against the levity of the female sex; their fickleness, their double dealing, their rotten promises, their broken faith; and finally, their want of judgment in bestowing their affections. These, gentlemen, are my reasons for the discourse you heard me address to my goat, whom (because she is a female) I despise, although she be the best of the fold. This is the story I promised to recount, and if I have been prolix in the narration, I shall not be brief in what service you shall please to command. Hard by is my cottage, in which I have plenty of new milk, and most savoury cheese, with abundance of the fruit in season, no less agreeable to the taste than to the view.’

CHAP. XXV.
OF THE QUARREL THAT HAPPENED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERD,
WITH THE CURIOUS ADVENTURE OF THE DISCIPLINANTS, WHICH THE KNIGHT
HAPPILY ATCHIEVED WITH THE SWEAT OF HIS BROW.

This story of the goatherd gave infinite pleasure to all that heard it, especially to the canon, who observed, with admiration, his manner of relating it, as distant from the rustick phrase of a peasant as near approaching to the polite stile of a courtier; and therefore he said, the curate had justly observed that the mountains sometimes produced learned men. Every body made proffers of service to Eugenio, but he that shewed himself most liberal in compliment was Don Quixote, who said to him, ‘Truly, brother goatherd, were it possible for me to undertake any new adventure, I would forthwith set forward in your behalf, and deliver Leandra from that monastery, in which she is, doubtless, detained against her will, in spite of the abbess and all that should oppose my design; and would put her into your hands to be treated according to your good will and pleasure, so far as is consistent with the laws of chivalry, by which all damsels are protected from wrongs: though I hope in God, that a malicious inchanter shall not so far prevail, but that he may be excelled in power, by another of a more righteous disposition; and then you may depend upon my favour and assistance, according to the duty of my profession, which is no other than to succour the wretched and the weak.’

The goatherd stared at Don Quixote, and being struck with admiration at his rueful aspect and dishevelled locks, said to the barber, who sat near him, ‘Signior, pray, who is that man who looks and talks so wildly?’—‘Who should it be,’ answered the barber, ‘but the renowned Don Quixote de La Mancha! the redresser of grievances, the righter of wrongs, the protector of damsels, the terror of giants, and thunder-bolt of war?’—‘That discourse,’ replied the peasant, ‘puts me in mind of those books which treat of knights errant, who were commonly distinguished by such titles as you bestow on that man: but, I suppose, you are pleased to be merry, or else the apartments of this poor gentleman’s skull are but indifferent-furnished.’

‘You are a most impudent rascal!’ (cried the knight, over-hearing what he said) ‘it is your skull that is unfurnished and unsound; but mine is more pregnant than the abominable whore that brought you forth.’ So saying, he snatched up a loaf, and flung it at the goatherd with such fury, that he levelled his nose with his face.

Eugenio, who did not understand raillery, finding himself maltreated in earnest, without any respect for the carpet, table-cloth, or company, leaped upon the knight, and laying hold of his collar, with both hands, would certainly have strangled him, if Sancho Panza had not at that instant sprung to his master’s assistance, and pulling his antagonist backwards, tumbled him over upon the table, where plates, cups, victuals, wine, and all went to wreck. Don Quixote finding himself disengaged, arose, and in his turn, got upon the goatherd, who being battered by the master, and kicked by the man, was creeping about on all fours in quest of a table-knife, with which he intended to take some bloody revenge, but was prevented by the canon and curate; the goatherd, however, managed matters so as that he got the knight under him, when he rained such a shower of kicks and cuffs upon his carcase, that our hero’s countenance was as much overflowed with blood as his own; the curate and canon were ready to burst with laughing, the troopers capered about with joy, and the whole company hallooed, according to the practice of the spectators when two dogs are engaged: Sancho Panza alone was distracted, because he could not get out of the clutches of one of the canon’s servants, who hindered him from assisting his master. In fine, when every body was thus regaled and rejoiced, except the combatants, who worried each other, they heard a trumpet utter such a melancholy note, that they could not help turning their heads, and looking towards the place from whence the sound seemed to come: but he on whom it made the greatest impression was Don Quixote; who, though lying under his antagonist, very much against his inclination, and more than sufficiently pummelled, said to the goatherd, ‘Brother devil, (for sure thou canst be nothing else, who hast strength and valour sufficient to overcome my efforts) I beg a truce for one hour only; because the doleful sound of that trumpet which salutes our ears, seems to summon me to some new adventure.’

The goatherd being by this time heartily tired of drubbing, as well as of being drubbed, immediately complied with his request; and Don Quixote starting up, directed his view towards the place whence the sound seemed to issue, where he descried a great number of people dressed in white like disciplinants, coming down the side of a neighbouring hill. That year the heavens had withheld refreshing showers from the earth; and through all the villages of that district the people instituted processions, disciplines, and prayers, beseeching God to open the fountains of his mercy, and favour them with rain: for this purpose, the inhabitants of a neighbouring village were then going in procession to a holy hermitage built on an eminence that skirted the valley; and Don Quixote seeing the strange dress of the disciplinants[125], without recollecting that he had frequently seen such habits before, concluded the whole to be an adventure, which it was the province of him as a knight-errant to atchieve: what served to confirm him in this notion, was an image cloathed in black, which was carried before them, and which he supposed to be some princess whom those discourteous robbers were carrying off by force.

This whim no sooner entered his brain, than he ran with great agility to Rozinante, who was feeding very quietly, and taking the bridle and shield, which hung upon the pummel of the saddle, clapped the bit in his mouth in a twinkling, and demanding his sword from Sancho, mounted his steed, and braced his target, calling aloud to the company, ‘Now, honourable gentlemen, ye shall perceive the importance of those who profess the order of knight-errantry! now, I say, ye shall, in the deliverance of that excellent lady, who is at present a captive, behold how much knights-errant ought to be esteemed.’

So saying, he clapped heels to Rozinante, (spurs he had none) and at a hand-gallop (for we do not find in this true history that ever Rozinante went full-speed) rode up to attack the disciplinants. Though the canon, curate and barber, made efforts to detain him, they found it impracticable; he was even deaf to the cries of Sancho, who bawled with great vociferation: ‘Where are you going, Signior Don Quixote? what devil possesses and provokes you to act against our Catholick faith! take notice—a plague upon me!—take notice that this is no other than a procession of disciplinants, and that lady carried on the bier the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin! Consider, Signior, what you are about, for sure I am you do not know!’

In vain did Sancho strain his lungs: his master was so intent upon overtaking the apparitions, and setting the lady in black at liberty, that he heard not one syllable; nor if he had, would he have returned, even if the king had commanded him so to do. When he approached the procession, he stopped Rozinante, who was already out of breath, and with a hoarse disordered voice, pronounced, ‘You there, who perhaps disguise yourselves for no good, stop, and give ear to what I am going to say.’

Those who carried the image were the first that halted, and one of the four priests who sung the litanies, observing the strange aspect of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rozinante, with other ridiculous circumstances belonging to both, answered in these words: ‘Friend, if you have any thing to say, speak quickly; for these our brethren are all this while scourging their own flesh; and we cannot, nor is it reasonable we should tarry to hear any thing that cannot be comprehended in two words.’—‘I will comprehend what I have to say in one,’ replied the knight; ‘and it is this: I command you instantly to set free that beautiful lady, whose tears and melancholy deportment clearly demonstrate that you are carrying her off, contrary to her inclination, after having done her some notorious wrong; and I, who was born to redress such grievances, will not suffer you to proceed one step farther, until she shall have obtained that liberty she deserves.’

From these words, concluding that he must be some madman, all of them began to laugh very heartily; and their mirth acting as a train of gunpowder to the knight’s choler, he drew his sword, and without uttering another word, attacked the bearers; one of whom, leaving his share of the load to his companions, opposed himself to this aggressor, brandishing a fork or pole, on which (when they were wearied) they supported the bier. Don Quixote, with a furious back-stroke, cut this implement in two; but with the piece which remained in the hand of the defendant, received such a thwack upon the shoulder above his sword-arm, that his buckler was unable to sustain the shock of such a rude assault, and down came the poor knight in a most lamentable condition.

Sancho Panza, who came puffing after his master, seeing him fall, called aloud to his antagonist to forbear; for he was a poor inchanted knight, who had never done the least harm to man, woman, or child; but the peasant’s forbearance was not owing to this exclamation of the squire, so much as to the situation of Don Quixote, who neither moved hand nor foot; so that believing he had done his business, he hastily gathered up his frock, and fled through the field as nimble as a buck. By this time the whole company were come up to the place where Don Quixote lay; and those belonging to the procession seeing so many people running towards them, accompanied by the troopers with their cross-bows, began to be in dread of some mischievous event, and formed themselves into a circle around the image: then the disciplinants lifting up their hoods, and wielding their scourges, and the priests their long tapers, waited the assault, with full determination to defend themselves, and, if possible, act offensively against all who should attack them. But fortune disposed of things more favourably than they expected; for all that Sancho did, was to throw himself upon the body of his master, who he believed was actually dead, and utter the most doleful and ludicrous lamentation that ever was heard. The curate was immediately known by a brother of the cloth, who belonged to the procession, and this acquaintance dispelled the apprehension which both squadrons had began to conceive. Our licentiate told his friend in a few words who Don Quixote was, upon which he and the whole crowd of disciplinants went to see whether or not the poor knight was dead, and heard Sancho Panza, with tears in his eyes, lamenting in these words: ‘O flower of chivalry, who by the single stroke of a cudgel, hast finished the career of thy well-spent life! O thou honour of thy family, thou glory of La Mancha! aye, and of the whole world, which being deprived of thee, will soon be filled with evil-doers, who will prosper without fear of chastisement for their wicked deeds! Oh, thou wast more liberal than all the Alexanders that ever lived! for thou gavest me, for eight months service only, the best island that ever the sea surrounded. Oh! thou wast humble with the haughty, and haughty with the humble, tempting dangers, enduring disgraces, in love without cause, imitating the good, scourging the wicked, a professed enemy to every thing that was base; in short, a knight-errant, and that is every thing in one word!’

The cries and groans of Sancho revived his master, and the first words he pronounced were these: ‘He who is condemned to live absent from thee, most amiable Dulcinea! is subjected to much greater hardships than these. Friend Sancho, help to lay me on the inchanted car; for I am incapable of pressing Rozinante’s saddle, this whole shoulder being crushed to pieces.’—‘That I’ll do very willingly, dear master,’ replied the squire; ‘and let us return to our own habitation, in company of these gentlemen, who wish you well; and there we will lay a scheme for another sally, which I hope will be more fortunate and creditable.’—‘You are in the right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and it will be very prudent in us to let the malign influence of the stars pass over.’

The canon, curate, and barber, approved of his intention, and being extremely diverted with the squire’s simplicity, conveyed the knight to his former situation in the waggon. The procession was formed anew, and set forwards accordingly: the goatherd took his leave of the company; the troopers, being unwilling to go farther, were paid by the curate for their trouble; the canon having intreated the priest to inform him by letter of Don Quixote’s fate, with regard to the continuation or cure of his extravagance, bade him farewel, and proceeded on his journey; in short, there was a general separation, till at length the curate, barber, Don Quixote, and Panza, were left by themselves, with the trusty Rozinante, who, with the patience of his master, bore and beheld every thing that passed.

The waggoner yoking his oxen, accommodated the knight with a truss of hay, and with his usual phlegm jogged on according to the priest’s directions, till, at the end of six days, they arrived at their own village, which they entered about noon; and it chancing to be Sunday, the market-place through which they were obliged to pass was crouded with people, who running to see what was in the cage, recognized their townsman, and were struck with astonishment. A boy ran immediately to his housekeeper and niece, whom when he informed of their master’s arrival, in a most meagre, withered condition, stretched upon a truss of hay, in a waggon; it was a piteous thing to hear the cries that were uttered by these worthy ladies, who buffetted themselves through vexation, and vented bitter curses against the wicked books of chivalry; which lamentations, buffettings, and curses, were repeated with greater violence than ever, when they saw the knight enter his own gate.

Sancho Panza’s wife, who had got intimation that he was gone with Don Quixote in quality of his squire, hearing of his return, ran straight to her husband, and the first question she asked was, whether or not the ass was in good health? when the squire answered, that the ass was in better health than his master, ‘Thanks be to God,’ cried she, ‘for that and all his other mercies. But, now tell me, friend, what good you have got by your squireship? Have you brought home a new petticoat for me, or shoes for your children?’—‘I have brought no such matters, my dear,’ replied Sancho, ‘but things of greater consideration and importance.’—‘I am glad of that, with all my heart!’ said the wife; ‘pray shew me these things of greater consideration and importance, that the sight of them may rejoice my heart, which hath been so sad and discontented all the weary time of your being away.’—‘You shall see them at home,’ answered Sancho; ‘and heark’ee, wife, make yourself easy for the present; for, an it please God that we set out again in quest of adventures, you shall speedily behold your husband an earl, or governor of an island; I don’t mean your common islands, but one of the best that ever was seen.’—‘The Lord in heaven grant it, husband; for I am sure we have need enough of such windfalls: but tell me, what is an island; for, truly, I know not the meaning of the word?’—‘Honey was not made for the mouth of an ass,’ said the squire; ‘you shall see what it is, all in good time, my dear; aye, and admire to hear all your vassals call you, my lady.’—‘What is that you say, Sancho, of ladies, islands, and vassals?’ cried Joan Panza; for that was the name of the squire’s wife, though she was not related to Sancho before marriage; but it is the custom in La Mancha for the women to take the names of their husbands. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry to know every thing, Joan,’ replied the squire; ‘it is sufficient that I tell thee nothing but truth; let this, therefore, stop that mouth of thine. Mean time, however, I care not if I tell thee, that it is one of the most pleasant occupations in the world for an honourable person, like me, to be squire to a knight-errant, when he is in quest of adventures. True it is, the greatest part of them do not fall out quite so much to one’s liking as one could wish; for, out of a hundred in which we are engaged, ninety-nine are generally cross and unfortunate. That I know by experience, having been sometimes threshed, and sometimes blanketted; but howsomever, it is a curious pastime to be always in expectation of adventures, crossing huge mountains, searching woods, climbing rocks, visiting castles, lodging at inns, where we live at rack and manger, and the devil a farthing to pay.’

While this conversation passed between Sancho and his wife, the housekeeper and niece received Don Quixote, whom they undressed and put to bed in his old chamber, while he eyed them askance, without being able to comprehend where he was. The curate laid his injunctions on the niece to cherish her uncle with great tenderness, and charged them both to take especial care that he might not escape again, giving them an account of the trouble he had been at in bringing him back to his own house. Here they raised their voices again in concert, renewing their curses upon the books of chivalry, and beseeching Heaven to confound the authors of such madness and lyes to the lowest pit of hell; in short they were half distracted with the apprehension of losing him again, as soon as his health should be re-established; and this was actually the case.

But the author of this history, although he inquired with the utmost curiosity and diligence, concerning the actions of Don Quixote in his third sally, could never find any satisfactory and authentick account of them; only, fame hath preserved some memoirs in La Mancha, by which it appears that Don Quixote, when he set out the third time, went to Saragossa, where he was present at a most celebrated tournament, in which many things happened to him worthy of his genius and valour: but with regard to his death and burial, he could obtain no information; and must have remained entirely ignorant of that event, had he not luckily met with an old physician, who had in his custody a leaden box, which he said he found under the foundation of an ancient hermitage that was repairing. This box contained some skins of parchment, on which were written in Gothick characters and Castilian verse, many of our knight’s exploits, with a description of Dulcinea’s beauty, Rozinante’s figure, Sancho’s fidelity, and Don Quixote’s own funeral, celebrated by divers epitaphs, and panegyricks on his life and morals. All that could be read, and fairly copied, are those which are here inserted by the faithful author of this new and surprizing history, who, in recompence for the immense trouble he has undergone in his enquiries, and in examining the archives of La Mancha, that he might publish it with more certainty, desires the reader to favour him with the same credit which intelligent persons give to those books of chivalry that pass so currently in the world; and herewith he will rest fully satisfied; and perhaps be animated to search after, and find out other histories, if not as authentick, at least as full of invention and entertainment.

The verses which were written in the first skin of parchment found in the leaden box were these—

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

MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DON QUIXOTE.

EPITAPH.

The bully that La Mancha deck’d
With spoils that shame the Cretan Jason,
Whose judgment ripe, and wit uncheck’d,
The trumpet of renown shall blazon;
That arm, whose valour did extend
To Gæta, from remote Cathay;
That muse which did the welkin rend
With verse which brazen plates display;
Who Amadis left far behind,
And deem’d Galaor a mere baby,
Whose valour with such lustre shin’d,
As shew’d ev’n Belianis shabby;
He that on Rozinante rode,
Now mingles with this clay-cold clod!

PANIGUADO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.

SONG.

The maid, you see, with cheeks so blouzy,
High-chested, vigorous, and frouzy,
Dulcinea, fam’d Toboso’s princess,
Don Quixote’s gen’rous flame evinces:
For her, on foot, he did explore
The sable mountain o’er and o’er,
Through many a weary field did halt,
And all through Rozinante’s fault.
Hard fate! that such a dame should die
In spite of him and chivalry;
That he whose deeds e’en stones proclaim,
Should mourn a disappointed flame!

CAPRICHOSO, A MOST INGENIOUS ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF ROZINANTE, THE RENOWNED STEED OF DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

On a proud trunk of Adamant,
Whose bloody branches smell’d of war,
La Mancha’s frantick wight did plant
His standard glitt’ring from afar.
There hung his arms; there gleam’d his sword,
That wont to level, hack, and hew;
Yet shall the wond’ring muse afford
For new exploits, a stile that’s new.
Let Gaul of Amadis be proud,
Greece boast the champions she hath bore;
Don Quixote triumphs o’er the crowd
Of all the warlike knights of yore:
For neither Gaul nor Greece can vie
With fam’d La Mancha’s chivalry.
Ev’n Rozinante wears the bay;
Let Brilladore and Bayard bray[126].

BURLADOR, AN ARGAMASILLAN ACADEMICIAN, ON SANCHO PANZA.

SONG.

Here Sancho view of body small,
But great in worth, in action clear,
The best and simplest squire of all
The world e’er saw, I vow and swear.
And earl he surely might have been,
Had not this knavish age of brass,
With insolence and envious spleen,
Conspir’d against him and his ass;
That ass, on which he gently trotted
At gentle Rozinante’s tail;
Vain man, with flatt’ring hope besotted,
How, in a dream, thy prospects fail!

CACHIDIABLO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DON QUIXOTE.

EPITAPH.

On Rozinante’s back
The knight that whilome travell’d
Thro’ highway, path, and track,
Is here bemir’d and gravell’d:
And eke as stiff as he,
The block of Sancho Panza,
A trusty squire, perdie!
As ever mortal man saw.

TIQUITOCK, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.

Here lies Dulcinea, once so plump,
But now her fat all melts away;
For death, with an inhuman thump,
Has turn’d her into dust and clay.
Of a true breed she surely sprung,
And wanted not external grace;
Quixote’s heart with love she stung,
And shone the glory of her race.

These were all the verses which could be read; the rest being worm-eaten, were delivered to an academician, that he might attempt to unravel their meaning by conjecture. This task we understand, he has performed with infinite pains and study, intending to publish them to the world, in expectation of the third sally of Don Quixote.

‘_Forse altri canterà con miglior plettro._’

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Footnote 125:

Persons hired to whip themselves on such occasions.

Footnote 126:

The horse of Orlando Furioso was called Brigliadoro; as Bayardo was
the name of the steed belonging to Ruggiero, the second, if not the
first hero in Ariosto’s incomparable poem.

VOLUME THE THIRD.
PART II.