CHAP. I. The Quality and way of Living of the Re­nowned Don Quixote de la Mancha.

AT a certain Village in La Mancha, which I shall not name, there liv'd not long ago one of those old-fashi­on'd Gentlemen, who are never with­out a Lance upon a Rack, an old Target, a lean [Page 2] Horse and a Grey-hound. His Diet con­sisted more of Beef than Mutton, and with Minc'd Meat on most Nights, Lentils on Fri­days, Scraps and Penance on Saturdays, and a Pidgeon extraordinary on Sundays, he consum'd three quarters of his Revenue. The rest was laid out in a Plush Coat, Velvet Breeches, with Slippers of the same for Holidays; and a Suit of the very best home spun Cloath, which he be­stow'd on himself for Working-days. His whole Family was a House-keeper something turn'd of forty, a Niece not twenty, and a Man that serv'd him in the House and in the Field, and cou'd saddle a Horse, and handle the Pru­ning-hook. The Master himself was nigh fifty years of age, of a hale and strong Complexion, lean-body'd and thin-fac'd, an early Riser, and a Lover of Hunting. Some say his Surname was Quixada or Quesada (for Authors differ in this particular) however, we may reasonably conjecture he was call d Quixada; tho this con­cerns us but little, provided we keep strictly to truth in every point of this history.

You must know then, that when our Gen­tleman had nothing to do (which was almost all the year round) he pass'd his time in reading Books of Knight-Errantry; which he did with that application and delight, that at last he in a manner wholly left off his Country Sports, and even the care of his Estate. Nay, he grew so strangely besotted with those amusements, that he sold many Acres of arable Land to purchase Books of that kind, by which means he collected as many of 'em as were to be had. But among them all, none pleas'd him like the Works of the famous Feliciano de Silva. For, [Page 3] the clearness of his Prose, and those intricate expressions, with which 'tis interlac'd, seem'd to him so many Pearls of Eloquence; especially when he came to read the Challenges and the amorous Addresses, many of them in this ex­traordinary stile. ‘The Reason of your unrea­sonable usage of my Reason, does so enfeeble my Reason, that I have Reason to expostulate with your Beauty. And this: 'The Sublime Heavens, which with your Divinity, divinely fortifie you with the Stars, and fix you the Deserver of the Desert that is deserv'd by your Grandeur.’ These and such like Expressions strangely puzzled the poor Gentlemans under­standing, while he was breaking his Brain to un­ravel their meaning, which Aristotle himself cou'd never have found, tho he shou'd have been rais'd from the dead for that very pur­pose.

He did not so well like those dreadful wounds which Don Bellianis gave and receiv'd; for he consider'd that all the Art of Surgery cou'd ne­ver secure his Face and Body from being strange­ly disfigur'd with Scars. However, he highly commended that Author for concluding his Book with a Promise of giving the remaining part of the unfinish'd Adventure; and ma­ny times he had a desire to put Pen to Pa­per, and faithfully finish it himself; which he had certainly done, and doubtless with good success, had not his thoughts been wholly engross'd in much more important De­signs.

[Page 4]He would often dispute with the^* Curate of the Parish, a man of Learning, who had taken his Degrees at Ciguenca, who was the better Knight, Palmerin ef England, or Amadis de Gaule. But Master Nicholas, the^† Barber of the same Town, wou'd say, that none of 'em cou'd compare with the Knight of the Sun; and that if any one came near him, 'twas certainly Don Galaor, the Brother of Amadis de Gaule; for he was a man that would dispence with any Thing; neither was he so finical, nor such a puling whining Lover as his Brother, and as for Courage he was not a jot behind him.

In fine, he gave himself up so wholly to the reading of Romances, that a nights he wou'd pore on till 'twas Day, and a Days he wou'd read on till 'twas Night: and thus by sleeping little, and reading much, the moisture of his Brain was exhausted to that degree, that at last he lost the use of his Reason. A world of dis­orderly notions, pick'd out of his Books, crowd­ed into his imagination; and now his head was full of nothing but Enchantments, Quarrels, Battels, Challenges, Wounds, Complaints, A­mours, Torments, and abundance of Stuff and [Page 5] Impossibilities. Insomuch that all the Fables and fantastical Tales which he read, seem'd to him now as true as the most authentick Histo­ries. He wou'd say, that the Cid Ruydiaz was a very brave Knight, but not worthy to stand in competition with the Knight of the Burning Sword, who with a single back-stroke had cut asunder two fierce and mighty Giants. He lik'd yet better Bernardo del Carpio, who at Roncevalles depriv'd of Life the Enchanted Orlando, having lifted him from the ground, and choak'd him in the air, as Hercules did Antaeus the Son of the Earth.

As for the Giant Morgante, he always spoke very civil things of him; for tho he was one of that monstrous brood who ever were intolerably proud and brutish, he still behav'd himself like a civil and well-bred person.

But of all men in the world he admir'd Ri­naldo of Montalban, and particularly his sallying out of his Castle to rob all he met; and then again when he carry'd away the Idol of Maho­met, which was all massy Gold, as the History says. But he so hated that Traytor Galalon, that for the Pleasure of kicking him handsome­ly, he wou'd have given up his House-keeper, nay, and his Niece into the bargain.

Having thus lost his understanding, he un­luckily stumbled upon the oddest Fancy that ever entred into a Mad-man's Brain. For now he thought it convenient and necessary, for the Increase of his Honour, and the Service of the Public, to turn Knight-Errant, and roam thro the whole World, arm'd cap-a-pee, and mount­ed on his Steed, in quest of adventures: that thus imitating those Knights-Errant, of whom he had read, and following their course of life [Page 6] redressing all manner of Grievances, and expo­sing himself to Danger on all occasions, at last after a happy conclusion of his Enterprizes, he might purchase everlasting Honour and Re­nown. Transported with those agreeable Delu­sions, the poor Gentleman already grasped in imagination the Imperial Scepter of Trebisond, and hurried away by his mighty Expectations, he prepares with all expedition to take the Field.

The first thing he did was to scowr a suit of Armour, that had belong'd to his Great Grand­father, and had lain time out of mind carelessly rusting in a corner. But when he had clean'd and repair'd it as well as he cou'd, he perceiv'd there was a material piece wanting; for instead of a compleat Helmet, there was only a single Head-piece. However, his Industry supplied that defect; for with some Pasteboard he made a kind of a half Beaver or Vizor, which being fitted to the Head-piece, made it look like an entire Helmet. Then to know whether it were Cutlass-proof, he drew his Sword, and try'd its edge upon the Pasteboard Vizor, but with the very first stroke he unluckily undid in a moment what he had been a whole week a doing. Now tho he found he had broke it with so little diffi­culty, he was not very well pleas'd to find he had lost his labour; and therefore to secure it from the like accident, he made it anew, and fenc'd it with thin plates of Iron, which he fixt on the inside of it so artificially, that at last he had reason to be satisfy'd with the solidity of the work, and so without any further Expe­riment he resolv'd it shou'd pass for a full and sufficient Helmet to all intents and purposes.

The next moment he went to view his Horse, [Page 7] whose Bones stuck out like the corners of a Spa­nish Real, being a worse Jade than Gonela's; qui tantum pellis & ossa fuit: However, his Master thought that neither Alexander's Buce­phalus, nor the Cid's Babieca cou'd be com­par'd with him. He was four days considering what Name to give him: For, as he argu'd with himself, there was no reason that a Horse, be­strid by so famous a Knight, and withal so ex­cellent, shou'd not be distinguish'd by a parti­cular Name; and therefore he study d to give him such a one as shou'd demonstrate as well what kind of Horse he had been before his Ma­ster was a Knight-Errant, as what he was now; thinking it but just, since the Owner chang'd his Profession, that the Horse shou'd also change his Title, and be dignified with another; a good big Word, such a one as shou'd fill the Mouth, and seem consonant with the quality and profession of his Master. And thus, after many Names which he devis'd, blotted ou [...], rejected, chang'd, lik'd, dislik d and pitch d upon again, he concluded to call him^* Rozinante; a Name, in his opinion, lofty, sounding, and significant of what he had been before, and also of what he was now In a word, a Horse before or above all the vulgar Breed of Horses in the world.

When he had thus given his Horse a name so much to his satisfaction, he thought of chusing one for himself; and having seriously ponder'd on the matter eight whole days more, at last he [Page 8] determin'd to call himself Don Quixote. Whence the Authors of this most authentick History draw this Inference, that his right name was Quixada, and not Quesada, as others obstinate­ly pretend. And observing that the valiant Amadis, not satisfy'd with the bare appellation of Amadis, added to it the name of his Country, that it might grow more famous by his Exploits, and so stil'd himself Amadis de Gaule; so he, like a true lover of his native soil, resolv'd to call himself Don Quixote de la Mancha; which ad­dition, to his thinking, denoted very plainly his Parentage and Country, and consequently wou'd fix a lasting honour on that part of the world.

And now his Armor being scowr'd, his Head­piece improv'd to a Helmet, his Horse and him­self new-nam'd, he perceiv'd he wanted nothing but a Lady, on whom he might bestow the Em­pire of his Heart: For he was sensible that a Knight Errant without a Mistress, was a Tree without either Fruit or Leaves, and a Body without a Soul. Shou'd I, said he, by good or ill Fortune, chance to encounter some Giant, as 'tis common in Knight-Errantry, and happen to lay him prostrate on the ground, transfix d with my Lance, or cleft in two, or in short overcome him and have him at my mercy, wou'd it not be proper to have some Lady to whom I may send him as a Trophy of my Valour. Then when he comes into her presence, throwing himself at her Feet, he may thus make his hum­ble submission: Lady, I am the Giant Caraculi­ambro, Lord of the Island of Malindrania, van­quish'd in single Combate by that never-deserv­edly-enough-extoll'd Knight Errant Don Quixote de la Mancha, who has commanded me to cast [Page 9] my self most humbly at your Feet, that it may please your honor to dispose of me according to your will. Oh how elevated was the Knight with the conceit of this imaginary submission of the Giant; especially having withal be­thought himself of a person, on whom he might confer the Title of his Mistress! which, 'tis believ'd happen'd thus. Near the place where he liv'd, dwelt a good likely Country Lass, for whom he had formerly had a sort of an inclination, tho 'tis believ'd she never heard of it, nor perceiv'd it in the least. Her name was Aldonca Lorenco; and this was she whom he thought he might entitle to the Soveraignty of his Heart; upon which he studied to find her out a new name, that might have some affinity with her old one, and yet at the same time sound somewhat like that of a Princess or Lady of Quality: So at last he resolv d to call her Dulcinea, with the addition of del Toboso, from the place where she was born: A name, in his opinion, sweet, harmonious, extraordinary, and no less significative than the others which he had devis'd.

CHAP. II. Of Don Quixote's first Sally.

THese Preparations being made, he found his designs ripe for Action, and thought it now a crime to deny himself any lon­ger to the injur'd world that wanted such a De­liverer; the more when he considered what grie­vances [Page 10] he was to redress, what wrongs and in­juries to remove, what abuses to correct, and what duties to discharge. So one morning before day, in the greatest heat of July, without acquainting any one with his design, with all the secrecy imaginable he arm'd himself Cap-a-pee, lac'd on his ill contriv'd Helmet, brac'd on his Target, grasp'd his Lance, mounted Rozinante and, at the private door of his back yard, sallied out into the Fields, wonderfully pleas'd to see with how much ease he had succeeded in the beginning of his Enterprize. But he had not gone far e're a terrible Thought alarm'd him; a thought that had like to have made him re­nounce his great undertaking. For now it [...]me into his mind, that the honor of Knighthood had not yet been conferr'd upon him, and there­fore, according to the Laws of Chivalry, he neither could nor ought to appear in arms a­gainst any profess'd Knight. Nay, he also consider'd, that tho he were already Knighted, it wou'd beeome him to wear white Armor, and not to adorn his Shield with any Devise, till he had deserv'd one by some extraordinary demon­stration of his valour.

These thoughts stagger'd his resolution, but, his folly prevailing more than any reason, he resolv'd to be dubb'd a Knight by the first he shou'd meet, after the example of several o­thers, who, as his distracting Romances inform'd him, had formerly done the like. As for the other difficulty about wearing white Armor, he propos'd to overcome it, by scowring his own at leisure, till they shou'd look whiter than Ermines. And having thus dismist these busy scruples, he very calmly rode on, leaving [Page 11] it to his Horses discretion to go which way he pleas'd, firmly believing, that in this consisted the very Being of Adventures; and as he thus went on, I cannot but believe, said he to him­self, that when the History of my famous At­chievements shall be given to the World, the learned Author will begin it in this very man­ner, when he comes to give an account of this my early setting out. ‘Scarce had the ruddy-colour'd Phaebus begun to spread the golden Tresses of his lovely hair, over the vast surface of the earthly Globe, and scarce had those feather'd Poets of the Grove, the pretty painted Birds tuned their little Pipes, to sing their early welcomes in soft melodious strains, to the beautiful Aurora, who having left her jealous Husbands Bed, displayed her rosy Graces to mortal Eyes, from the Gates and Balconies of the horizon of La Mancha, when the renown'd Knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, disdaining soft repose, forsook the voluptuous Down, and mounting his famous Steed Rozinante, entred the ancient and celebrated Plains of Montiel.’ This was indeed the very Road he took, and then proceeding, ‘O happy Age, O fortunate Times, cry'd he, decreed to usher into the World my famous Atchievements, Atchievements worthy to be engraven on Brass, carv'd in Marble, and delineated in some Master-piece of Painting, as some monuments of my Glory, and exam­ples for Posterity. And thou, venerable Sage, wise Enchanter, whatever be thy name, thou whom Fate has ordain'd to be the Compiler of this rare History, forget not I beseech thee my trusty Rozinante, the eternal Companion of all any Adventures. After this, as if he had been re­ally [Page 12] in Love; O, Princess Dulcinea, cry'd he, Lady of this captive heart, much Sorrow and Woe you have doom'd me to, in banishing me thus, and imposing on me your rigorous Com­mands, never to appear before your Beauteous Face. Remember, Lady, that loyal heart your Slave, who for your Love submits to so many miseries.’ To these extravagant conceits he added a world of others, all in imitation, and in the very stile of those which the reading of Romances had furnish'd him with: and all this while he rode so softly, and the Sun's heat en­creas'd so fast, and was so violent, that it would have been sufficient to have melted his Brains, had he had any left.

He travell'd almost all that day without meet­ing any adventure worthy the trouble of rela­ting, which put him into a kind of Despair, for he desired nothing more than to encounter im­mediately some person on whom he might try the vigour of his arm.

Some Authors say that his first Adventure was that of the Pass call'd Puerto Lapice; others, that of the Windmills; but all that I could dis­cover of certainty in this matter, and that I meet with in the Annals of La Mancha, is, that he travell'd all that day, and towards the evening, he and his Horse being heartily tir'd, and almost famish'd, Don Quixote looking a­bout him, in hopes to discover some Castle, or at least some Shepherds Cottage, there to repose and refresh himself, at last, near the Road which he kept, he espied an Inn; as welcome a sight to his longing eyes as if he had discover'd a Star directing him to the Gate, nay, to the Palace of his Redemption. Thereupon hast­ning [Page 13] towards the Inn with all the speed he cou'd, he got thither just at the close of the even­ing. There stood by chance at the Inn-door two young Female-Adventurers, alias Common Wenches, who were going to Sevill with some Carriers that happen'd to take up their Lodging there that very evening; and as whatever our Knight-Errant saw, thought, or imagin'd, was all of a Romantick Cast, and appear'd to him altogether after the manner of the Books that had perverted his Imagination, he no soon­er saw the Inn but he fancied it to be a Castle, fenc'd with four Towers, and lofty Pinacles glittering with Silver, together with a deep Mote, Draw-bridge, and all those other ap­purtenances peculiar to such kind of places.

Therefore when he came near it, he stopt a while at a distance from the Gate, expecting that some Dwarf wou'd appear on the Battle­ments, and sound his Trumpet, to give notice of the arrival of a Knight. But finding that no body came, and that Rozinante was for ma­king the best of his way to the Stable, he ad­vanc'd to the Inn door, where spying the two young Doxies, they seem'd to him two beauti­ful Damsels or graceful Ladies, taking the be­nefit of the fresh Air at the Gate of the Castle. It happened also at the very moment, that a Swine­herd chanced to Wind his Horn, to get his Hogs together, and Don Quixote presently ima­gin'd, this was the wish'd-for signal, which some Dwarf gave to notify his approach; there­fore with the greatest joy in the world he rode up to the Inn. The Wenches, affrighted at the approach of a man cas'd in Iron, and arm'd with a Lance and Target, were for run­ning [Page 14] in to their Lodging; but Don Quixote perceiving their fear by their flight, lifted up the Pasteboard Beaver of his Helmet, and dis­covering his wither'd dusty Face, with comely Grace and grave Delivery, accosted 'em in this manner. I beseech ye Ladies do not fly, nor fear the least offence; the Order of Knighthood which I profess, does not permit me to coun­tenance or offer injuries to any one in the Uni­verse, and least of all to persons of your Lady­ship's exalted Rank and Merit. The Wenches look'd earnestly upon him, endeavouring to see his Face, which his ill contriv'd Beaver partly hid; but when they heard themselves thus complimented with the Title of Ladyship, an honor to which their condition never had the least pretence, they cou'd not forbear laugh­ing outright, which Don Quixote resented as a great affront. Give me leave to tell ye, Ladies, cry'd he, that Modesty and Civility are very becoming in the fair Sex; whereas laughter without ground is the highest piece of Indis­cretion; however, added he, I do not pre­sume to say this to offend you or incur your displeasure. No, Ladies, I assure you I have no other design but to do you service. This uncommon way of Expression, joyn'd to the Knight's scurvy Figure, increas'd their Mirth, which incens'd him to that degree, that this might have carry'd things to an extremity, had not the Inn-keeper luckily appear'd at that jun­cture. He was a man whose Burthen of Fat inclin'd him to peace and quietness, yet when he had observ'd such a strange disguise of hu­man Shape, in his odd Armor and Equipage, he cou'd hardly forbear keeping the Wenches [Page 15] company in their laughter. But having the fear of such a Warlike appearance before his eyes, he resolv'd to give him good words, and therefore accosting him civilly, Sir Knight, said he, if your Worship be dispos'd to alight, you will fail of nothing here but of a Bed; as for all other accommodations, you may be sup­ply'd to your mind. Don Quixote observing the humility of the Governour of the Castle, (for such the Inn-keeper and Inn seem'd to him) Senior Castillano, said he, the least thing in the world suffices me; for Arms are the on­ly things I value, and Combat is my Bed of Repose. The Inn-keeper thought he had call'd him^* Castillano, as taking him to be one of the true Castillans, whereas he was indeed of Andaluzia, nay, of the neighbourhood of St Lucar, no less thievish than Cacus, nor less mischievous than a truant Scholar, or a Court Page, and therefore he made him this reply. ‘At this rate, Sir Knight, your Bed might be a Pavement, and your rest to be still awake; you may then safely alight, and I dare assure you, you can hardly miss being kept awake all the year long in this house, and much less one single night.’ With that he went and held Don Quixote's Stirrup, who not having broke his Fast that day, dismounted with no small trouble or difficulty. He immediately desired the Governor, (that is the Inn-keeper) to have spe­cial [Page 16] care of his Steed, assuring him, that there was not a better in the Universe. Upon which the Inn-keeper view'd him narrowly, but cou'd not think him to be half so good as Don Quixote said; however, having set him up in the Stable, he came back to the Knight, to see what he wanted, and found him pulling off his Armour, by the help of the good natur'd Wenches, who had already reconcil'd themselves to him; but tho they had eased him of his Corslet and Back­plate, they cou'd by no means undo his Gorget, nor take off his ill contriv'd Beaver, which he had ty'd so fast with green Ribbons, that 'twas impossible to get it off without cutting 'em. Now he wou'd by no means permit that, and so was forc'd to keep on his Helmet all Night, which was one of the most pleasant sights in the World. And while his Armour was taking off by the two kind Lasses, imagining 'em to be Persons of Quality, and Ladies of that Castle, he very gracefully made 'em the following com­pliment. [in imitation of an old Romance]

O Rozinante! for that is my Horses Name, Ladies, and mine Don Quixote de la Mancha I never thought to have discover'd it, till some Feats of Arms atchiev'd by me in your service, had made me better known to your Ladiships; But necessity forcing me to apply to my present [Page 17] purpose, that passage of the ancient Romance of Sir Lancelot, which I now repeated, has extorted the secret from me, before its time. Yet a day will come, when you shall command, and I obey, and then the Valor of my Arm shall evince the reality of my Zeal to serve your Ladiships.

The two Females, who were not used to such Rhetorical Speeches, cou'd make no answer to this, they only ask'd him, whether he wou'd eat any thing? That I will, with all my Heart, cry'd Don Quixote, whatever it be, for I'm of opini­on, nothing can come to me more seasonably. Now as ill luck wou'd have it, it happened to be Friday, and there was nothing to be had at the Inn, but some pieces of Fish, which is call'd Abadexo in Castile, Bacallao in Andaluzia, Cu­radillo in some places, and in others Truchuela or Little Trout, tho after all 'tis but Poor John: so they ask'd him, whether he cou d eat any of that Truchuela, because they had no other Fish to give him. Don Quixote, imagining they meant small Trout, told 'em that provided there were more than one, 'twas the same thing to him, they wou'd serve him as well as a great one; for, continu'd he, 'tis all one to me, whether I am paid a Piece of Eight in one single Piece, or in eight small Reals, which are worth as much. Besides, 'tis probable these Small Trouts may be like Veal, which is finer Meat than Beef, or like the Kid, which is bet­ter than the Goat. In short, let it be what it will, so it comes quickly; for the weight of Armor and the fatigue of Travel, are not to be supported without recreating Food. Thereup­on they laid the Cloath at the Inn-door, for the benefit of the fresh air; and the Land­lord [Page 18] brought him a piece of that Salt-fish, but ill water'd, and as ill drest, and as for the Bread 'twas as mouldy and brown as the Knights Armour. But 'twou'd have made a­ny one laugh to have seen him eat; for having his Helmet on, with his Beaver lifted up, 'twas impossible for him to feed himself with­out help, and one of the kind Wenches had that office; but there was no giving him Drink that way, and he must have gone with­out it, had not the Inn-keeper bor'd a Cane, and, setting one end of it to his Mouth, pour'd the Wine in at the other; all which the Knight suffer'd patiently, because he would not cut the Ribbonds that fasten'd his Helmet.

While he was at Supper, a Sow-gelder happen'd to Wind hisSilvato de Cannas. Instrument four or five times, as he came near the Inn, which made Don Quixote the more positive of his being in a famous Castle, where he was entertain'd with Music at Supper, that the Poor Jack was young Trout, the Bread of the finest Flower, the Wenches great Ladies, and the Inn keeper the Governour of the Castle: Which made him ap­plaud himself for his Resolution, and his setting out on such an account. The only thing that vext him, was, that he was not yet dubb'd a Knight; for he fancy'd he cou'd not lawfully undertake any Adventure till he had receiv'd the Order of Knighthood.

CHAP. III. An Account of the pleasant method taken by Don Quixote to be dubb'd a Knight.

DOn Quixote's mind being disturb'd with that thought, out of his short Ordinary he made yet a shorter Supper; and as soon as he had done he call'd his Host, then shut him and himself up in the Stable, and falling at his feet, I will never rise from this place, cry'd he, most Valorous Knight, till you have graciously vouchsaf'd to grant me a Boon which I will now beg of you, and which will redound to your ho­nour, and the good of mankind. The Inn-keeper, strangely at a loss to find his Guest at his feet, and talking at this rate, endeavour'd to make him rise, but all in vain, till he had pro­mis'd to grant him what he ask'd. I expected no less from your great magnificence, noble Sir, reply'd Don Quixote, and therefore I make bold to tell you, that the Boon which I beg, and you generously condescend to grant me, is, that to morrow you will be pleas'd to bestow the ho­nour of Knighthood upon me. This night I will watch my Armor in the Chappel of your Castle, and then in the morning you shall grati­fie me, as I passionately desire, that I may be duly qualified to seek out Adventures in every corner of the Universe, to relieve the Distressed, according to the Laws of Chivalry, and the In­clinations of Knights-Errant like my self. The [Page 20] Inn-keeper, who, as I said, was a sharp fellow, and had already a shrewd suspicion of the disor­der in his Guest's understanding, was fully con­vinc'd of it when he heard him talk after this manner; and to make sport that night, resolv'd to humour him in his desires, telling him, he was highly to be commended for his choice of such an Employment, which was altogether worthy a Knight of the first Order, such as his gallant Deportment discover'd him to be; that he himself had in his youth follow'd that honourable Profession, ranging thro many parts of the world, in search of Adventures, with­out so much as forgetting to visit the^* Per­chele [...] of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the com­pass of Sivil, the Quicksilver-house of Segovia, the Olive field of Valencia, the Circle of Grana­da, the Wharf of St Lucar, the Potro of Cor­dona, the Hedge Taverns of Toledo, and divers other places where he had exercis'd the nimble­ness of his feet, and the subtilty of his hands, doing wrongs in abundance, solliciting many Widows, undoing some Damsels^*, bubbling young Heirs, and in a word making himself fa­mous in most of the Courts of Judicature in Spain; till at length he retir'd to this Castle, where he liv d on his own Estate and those of others, entertaining all Knights-Errant, of what quality or condition soever, purely for the great affection he bore 'em, and to partake of what they got, in recompence of his good will. He added, that this Castle at present had [Page 21] no Chappel where the Knight might keep the Vigil of his Arms, it being pull'd down, in order to be new built; but that he knew they might lawfully be watch'd in any other place in a case of necessity; and therefore he might do it that night in the Court-yard of the Castle: and in the morning all the necessary Ceremonies shou'd be perform'd, so that he might assure himself he shou'd be dubb'd a Knight, nay, as much a Knight as any one in the world cou'd be; he then ask'd Don Quixote whether he had any Money? Not a Cross, reply'd the Knight, for I never read in any History of Chivalry that any Knight-Errant ever carry'd Money about him. You're mistaken, cry'd the Inn-keeper, for, admit the Histories are silent in this mat­ter, the Authors thinking it needless to menti­on things so evidently necessary as Money and Clean Shirts, yet there is no reason to be­lieve the Knights went without either; and you may rest assur'd that all the Knights-Errant, of whom so many Histories are full, had their Purses well lin d to supply themselves with ne­cessaries, and carry'd also with 'em some Shirts, and a small B [...] of Salves to heal their wounds; for they had not the conveniency of Surgeons to cure 'em every time they fought in Fields and Desarts, unless they were so happy as to have some Sage or Magician for their Friend, to give 'em present assistance, sending them some Damsel or Dwa [...] through the Air in a Cloud, with a small Bottle of a Water, of so great a Virtue, that they no sooner tasted a Drop of it, but their Wounds were as per­fectly cur d, as if they had never receiv'd any. But when they wanted such a Friend in former [Page 22] Ages, the Knights thought themselves oblig'd to take care, that their Squires shou'd be pro­vided with Money and other Necessaries, as Lint and Salves to dress their Wounds; and if those Knights ever happen'd to have no Squires, which was but very seldom, then they carry'd those things behind 'em in a little Bag, as if it had been something of greater value, and so neatly fitted to their Saddle, that it was hardly seen, for had it not been upon such an account, the carrying of a Bag was not much allow'd among Knights-Errant. I must therefore ad­vise you, continu'd he, nay I might even charge and command you, as you are shortly to be my Son in Chivalry, never from this time for­wards to ride without Money, nor without the other necessaries, of which I spoke to you, which you will find very beneficial, when you least expect it. Don Quixote promis'd to per­form very punctually all his Injunctions: and so they dispos'd every thing in order to his watching his Arms in a great yard, that ad­joyn'd to the Inn. To which purpose, the Knight having got 'em all together, laid 'em in a Horse-trough close by a Well in that Yard, then bracing his Target, and grasping his Lance, just as it grew dark, he began to walk about by the Horse-trough, with a graceful deportment. In the mean while the Inn-keeper acquainted all those that were in the House, with the ex­travagancies of his guest, his watching his Arms, and his hopes of being made a Knight; they all admir d very much at so strange a kind of Folly, and went out to observe him at a distance; where they saw him sometimes walk about with a great deal of gravity, and sometimes [Page 23] lean on his Lance, with his eyes all the while fixt upon his Arms. 'Twas now undoubted Night, but yet the Moon did shine with such a brightness, as might almost have vy'd with that of the Planet which lent it her; so that the Knight was wholly expos'd to the Specta­tors view. While he was thus employ'd, one of the Carriers, who lodged in the Inn, came out to water his Mules, which he cou'd not do without removing the Arms out of the Trough. With that Don Quixote, who saw him make to­wards it, cry'd out to him aloud, O thou, who e're thou art, rash Knight, that prepares to lay thy hands on the Arms of the most valorous Errant that ever wore a Sword, take heed! Do not audaciously attempt to prophane 'em with a Touch, lest instant Death be the too sure reward of thy Temerity. But the Carrier never regarded these dreadful Threats, and lay­ing hold on the Armor, by the Straps, without any more a do threw it a good way from him; tho it had been better for him to have let it alone; for Don Quixote no sooner saw this, but lifting up his eyes to heaven, and addressing his thoughts, as it seem'd, to his Lady Dulcinea; Assist me, Lady, cry'd he, in this first opportu­nity that offers it self to your faithful Slave, nor let your Favour and Protection be deny'd me in this first tryal of my Valour. Repeating such like Ejaculations, he let slip his Target, and lift­ing up his Lance with both his hands, he gave the Carrier such a terrible knock on his inconsiderate head with his Lance, that he laid him at his Feet in a woful condition, and had he back d that Blow with another, the Fellow wou'd certainly have had no need of a Surgeon. This done, Don [Page 24] Quixote took up his Armor, laid it again in the Horse-trough, and then walk'd on backwards and forwards, with as great an unconcern as he did at first.

Soon after, another Carrier, not knowing what had happen'd, came also to water his Mules, while the first lay yet on the ground in a Trance; but as he offer'd to clear the Trough of the Armor, Don Quixote without speaking a word, or imploring any one's assistance, once more dropt his Target, lifted up his Lance, and then let it fall so heavily on the Fellows head, that he broke it in three or four places. His outcry soon alarm'd, and brought thither all the People in the Inn, and the Landlord among the rest; which Don Quixote perceiving, Thou Queen of Beauty (cry'd he, bracing on his Shield, and drawing his Sword) Thou Courage and Vigor of my weakn'd heart, now is the time, when thou must enliven thy adventurous Slave, with the Beams of thy greatness, while this moment he is engaging in so terrible an Adven­ture. With this, in his opinion, he found himself supplyed with such an addition of Courage, that had all the Carriers in the world at once at­tackt him, he wou'd undauntedly have fac'd 'em all. On the other side, the Carriers en­rag'd to see their Comrades thus us'd, tho they were afraid to come near, gave the Knight such a Volly of Stones, that he was forc'd to shelter himself as well as he could under the Co­vert of his Target, without daring to go far from the Horse-trough, lest he shou'd seem to abandon his Arms. The Inn-keeper call'd to the Carriers as loud as he cou'd, to let him a­lone, that he had told 'em already he was [Page 25] mad, and consequently the Law wou'd ac­quit him tho he shou'd kill 'em. Don Quixote also made yet more noise, calling 'em false and treacherous Villains, and the Lord of the Castle, base and inhospitable, and a discourte­ous Knight, for suffering a Knight-Errant to be be so abus'd; I wou'd make thee know, cry'd he, what a perfidious wretch thou art, had I but re­ceived the Order of Knighthood. But for you, base, ignominious Rabble! Fling on! Do your worst! Come on, draw nearer, if you dare, and receive the Reward of your Indiscretion and Insolence. This he spoke with so much spirit and undauntedness, that he struck a terror into all his assailants; so that partly thro fear, and partly thro the Inn-keepers persuasions, they gave over flinging Stones at him; and he on his side permitted the Enemy to carry off their wounded, and then return'd to the guard of his Arms as calm and compos'd as before.

The Inn-keeper, who began somewhat to dis­relish these mad tricks of his Guest, resolv'd to dispatch him forthwith, and bestow on him that unlucky Knighthood, to prevent further mis­chief: So, coming to him, he excus'd himself for the Insolence of those base Scoundrels, as be­ing done without his privity or consent; but their audaciousness, he said, was sufficiently pu­nish'd. He added, that he had already told him there was no Chappel in his Castle, and that indeed there was no need of one to finish the rest of the Ceremony of Knighthood, which consisted only in the application of the Sword to the Neck and Shoulders, as he had read in the Register af the Ceremonies of the Order; and that this might be perform'd as well in a [Page 26] Field as any where else; that he had already fulfilled the obligation of watching his Arms which requir'd no more than a two hour [...] Watch, whereas he had been four hours upon the Guard. Don Quixote, who easily believ'd him, told him, he was ready to obey him, and desir'd him to make an end of the business a [...] [...]on as possible; for if he were but Knighted, and shou'd see himself once attackt, he believ'd he shou'd not leave a man alive in the Castle, except those whom he shou'd desire him to spare for his sake.

Upon this, the Inn-keeper, lest the Knight shou'd proceed to such Extremities, fetch'd the Book in which he us'd to set down the Carrier accounts for Straw and Barley, and havin [...] brought with him the two kind Females alrea­dy mention'd, and a Boy that held a piece of lighted Candle in his hand, he order'd Don Quixote to kneel: then reading in his Manual, as if he had been repeating some pious Oraison, in the midst of his Devotion, he lifted up his hand▪ and gave him a good blow on the Neck, and then a gentle slap on the Back with the flat o [...] his Sword, still mumbling some words between his teeth in the tone of a Prayer. After this he order'd one of the Wenches to gird the Sword about the Knights waste, which she did with much Solemnity, and I may add Discretion considering how hard a thing it was to forbea [...] laughing at every Circumstance of the Ceremo­ny. 'Tis true, the thoughts of the Knights late Prowess did not a little contribute to the check­ing the expression of her mirth. As she girded on his Sword, Heaven, cry'd the kind Lady, make your Worship a lucky Knight, and prosper [Page]

[Page] [Page 27] you where-ever you go. Don Quixote desir'd to know her Name, that he might understand to whom he was indebted for the favour she had be­stow'd upon him, and also make her partaker of the honour he was to acquire by the strength of his arm: To which the Lady answer'd with all humility, that her name was Toloso, a Cob­lers Daughter, that kept his Stall among the little Shops of Sanchominaya, at Toledo; and that whenever he pleas'd to command her she wou'd be his humble Servant. Don Quixote begg'd or her to do hm the favour to add hereafter the title of Lady to her name, and for his sake to be call'd hereafter the Lady Toloso; which she promis'd to do. Her Companion having buckled on his Spurs, occasion'd the like Conference be­tween 'em; and when he had ask'd her Name, she told him she went by the Name of Miller, being the Daughter of an honest Miller of Ante­quera. Our new Knight intreated her also to stile herself the Lady Miller; making her new Offers of Service. These extraordinary Cere­monies (the like never seen before) being thus hurried over in a kind of Poste-haste, Don Quixote cou'd not rest till he had taken the Field in quest of Adventures; therefore having im­mediately saddled his Rozinante, and being mounted, he embrac'd the Inn-keeper, and re­turn'd him so many thanks at so extravagant a rate for the high obligation he had laid upon him in dubbing him a Knight, that 'tis impossi­ble to give a true relation of 'em all: To which the Inn-keeper, in haste to get rid of him, re­turn'd as rhetorical, to shorter answers, and without stopping his Horse for the Reckoning was glad with all his heart to see him go.

CHAP. IV. What befel the Knight after he had left the Inn.

AƲrora began to usher in the Morn, when Don Quixote sallied out of the Inn, so well pleas'd, so gay, and so overjoy'd to find himself Knighted, that he infus'd the same satisfaction into his Horse, who seem'd ready to burst his Girts for joy. But calling to mind the admonitions, which the Inn-keeper had given him, concerning the Provision of ne­cessary accommodation in his Travels, particu­larly Money and clean Shirts, he resolv d to re­turn home, to furnish himself with them, and likewise get him a Squire, designing to enter­tain as such, a Labouring Man his Neighbour, who was poor, and had a charge of Children; but yet very fit for the office. With this resolu­tion he took the Road, that led to his own Vil­lage, and Rozinante, that seem'd to know his Will by instinct, began to carry him a round Trot, so briskly, that his Heels seem'd scarcely to touch the ground. The Knight had not travell'd far when he fancied he heard an effeminate Voice, complaining in a Thicket on his right hand; ‘I thank Heaven, said he, when he heard the cryes, for favouring me so soon with an op­portunity to perform the Duty of my Profes­sion, and reap the Fruit of my desires! Fo [...] these complaints are certainly the means of [Page 29] some distress'd Creature, who wants my present help.’ Then turning to that side, with all the speed which Rozinante cou'd make, he no sooner came into the Wood, but he found a Mare ty'd to an Oak, and to another a young Lad about fifteen years of Age, naked from the waste upwards. This was he who made such a lamentable outcry, and not without cause; for a lusty Country Fel­low was strapping him soundly with a Girdle, at every stripe putting him in mind of a Pro­verb, Keep your Mouth shut, and your Eyes open, Sirrah: Good Master cry'd the Boy, I'll do so no more, as I hope to be sav'd, I'll never do so again! Indeed Master, hereafter I'll take more care of your Goods. Don Quixote seeing this cry'd in an angry tone, ‘Discourteous Knight, 'tis an unworthy act, to strike a person who is not able to defend himself: Come, bestride thy Steed, and take thy Lance (for the Farmer had something that look'd like one, testing up­on the same Tree, to which his Mare was ty'd,) then I'll make thee know, thou hast acted the part of a Coward.’ The Country Fellow, who gave himself for lost, at the sight of an apparition in Armour brandishing his Lance at his Face, an­swer'd him in mild and submissive words: ‘Sir Knight, cry'd he, this Boy whom I am chasti­zing is my Servant, imploy'd by me to look after a flock of Sheep which I have not far off, but he's so heedless that I lose some of 'em eve­ry day. Now because I correct him for his Carelesness, or his Knavery, he says I do it out of Covetousness, to defraud him of his wages; but upon my Life and Soul he belies me. What, the Lye in my presenee, you saucy Clown, cry'd Don Quixote, by the Sun that [Page 30] shines I've a good mind to run thee thro the Body with my Lance! Pay the Boy this instant, without any more words; or by the power that rules us all, I'll immediately dispatch and annihilate thee. Come, unbind him this moment.’ The Countryman hung down his head, and without any further reply unbound the Boy, who being ask'd by Don Quixote what his Master ow'd him, told him, 'twas nine months Wages, at seven Reals a month. The Knight having cast it up, found it came to sixty three Reals in all; which he ordered the Farmer to pay the Fellow immediately, unless he in­tended to lose his life that very moment. The poor Countryman trembling for fear, told him, that, as he was on the brink of Death, by the Oath he had sworn (by the by he had not yet sworn at all) he did not owe the Lad so much; for there was to be deducted for three pair of Shooes which he had bought him, and a Real for his being let blood twice when he was sick. That may be, reply'd Don Quixote, but set the price of the Shoes, and the Bleeding a­gainst the stripes which you have given him without cause; for if he has us'd the Shooe-Leather which you paid for, you have in re­turn misus'd and impair'd his skin sufficiently; and if the Surgeon let him blood when he was sick, you have drawn blood from him now he is in health, so that he owes you nothing on that account. The worst is, Sir Knight, cry d the Farmer, that I have no Money about me, but let Andrew go home with me, and I ll pay him every Piece out of hand. What! I go with him, cry'd the youngster, the Devil a bit, Sir! Not I, truly, I know better things; [Page 31] for he'd no sooner have me by himself, but he'd flea me alive like another St Bartholomew. He will never dare to do it, reply'd Don Quix­ote; I command him, and that's sufficient to restrain him; therefore provided he will swear by the Order of Knighthood which has been conferr'd upon him, that he will duly observe this regulation, I will freely let him go, and then thou art secure of thy Money. Good Sir, take heed what you say, cry'd the Boy; for my Master is no Knight, nor ever was of any Order in his life: He's John Haldudo, the rich Farmer of Quintanar. This signifies little an­swer'd Don Quixote; for there may be Knights among the Haldudo's; besides, the brave man is his own Herald, and every man the Son of his own works. That's true, Sir, quoth An­drew; but of what works can this Master of mine be the Son, who denies me my wages which I have earn'd with the sweat of my Brows. I do not deny thee to pay thee thy wages, honest Andrew, cry'd the Master, be but so kind as to go along with me, and by all the Orders of Knighthood in the world, I swear, I'll pay thee every piece, as I said, nay, and sweet scented to boot. ‘You may spare your perfume, said Don Quixote, do but pay him in Reals, and I am satisfy'd; but be sure you perform your Oath; for if you fail, I my self swear by the same Oath, to return, and find you out, and punish you, though you shou'd hide your self as close as a Li­zard: and if you wou'd be inform'd who 'tis that lays these injunctions on you, that you may understand how highly it concerns you to observe 'em, know I am the valorous Don [Page 32] Quixote de la Mancha, the righter of wrongs, and avenger and redresser of grievances; and so farewel; but remember what you have promis'd and sworn, as you will answer the contrary at your peril.’ This said, he clapt Spurs to Rozinante, and quickly left the Master and the Man a good way behind him.

The Countryman, who follow'd him with both his Eyes, no sooner perceiv'd that he was past the Wood, and quite out of sight, but he went back to his Boy Andrew. Come, Child, said he, I will pay thee what I owe thee, as that righter of wrongs and redresser of grievances has order'd me. Ay, quoth Andrew, on my word, you'll do well to fulfill the Commands of that good Knight, whom Heaven grant long to live; for he is so brave a Man, and so just a Judge, that adad if you don't pay me, he'll come back, and make his Words good. I dare swear as much, answer'd the Master; and to show thee how much I love thee, I am willing to encrease the Debt, that I may enlarge the payment; with that he caught the youngster by the Arm, and ty'd him again to the Tree, where he handled him so unmercifully, that scarce any signs of Life were left in him. Now call your righter of wrongs, Mr Andrew, cry d the Farmer, and you shall see, he'll ne re be able to undo what I have done, tho I fancy 'tis but part of what I am to do; for I have a good mind to flea you alive, as you said I wou'd, you Rascal. However, he unty'd him at last, and gave him leave to go and seek out his Judge, in order to get his Decree put in Execution. Andrew went his ways not very well pleas'd you may be sure, yet fully resolv d to find out the valorous Don Quixote de la Man­cha, [Page 33] and give him an exact account of the whole Transaction, that he might pay the abuse with sevenfold usury. In short, he crept off sobbing and weeping, while his Master staid behind laughing; and in this manner was this wrong redress'd by the valorous Don Quixote de la Man­cha.

In the mean time, being highly pleas'd with himself, and what had happen'd, imagining he had had given a most fortunate and noble be­ginning to his Feats of Arms, as he went on to­wards his Village, ‘O most Beautiful of Beau­ties, said he with a low voice, Dulcinea del To­boso, well may'st thou deem thy self most happy, since 'twas thy good fortune to capti­vate and hold a willing Slave to thy desires, so valorous and renown'd a Knight as is, and ever shall be Don Quixote de la Mancha; who, as all the world knows, had the order of Knighthood bestowed on him but yesterday, and this day redressed the greatest wrong and grievance that ever Injustice cou'd design, or Cruelty commit: This day has he wrested the Scourge out of the hands of that Tormentor, who so unmercifully treated a tender Infant without the least occasion given.’ Just as he had said this, he found himself at a place where four Roads met; and this made him presently bethink himself of those Cross ways which often us'd to put Knights-Errant to a stand, to consult with themselves which way they shou'd take; and that he might follow their Example, he stopp'd a while, and after he had seriously reflected on the matter, he gave Rozinante the Reins, subjecting his own Will to that of his Horse, who pursuing his first in­tent, [Page 34] took the way that led to his own Sta­ble.

Don Quixote had not gone above two miles, but he discover'd a great Company of people riding towards him, who prov'd to be Mer­chants of Toledo, that were going to buy Silks in Murcia: They were six in all, every one skreen'd with his Umbrella, besides four Ser­vants on Horseback, and three Muleteers on Foot. The Knight no sooner perceiv'd 'em, but he imagin'd this to be some new Adventure, and because he was resolv'd to imitate as much as possible the passages which he had read in his Books, he was pleas'd to represent this to himself as such a particular Adventure, as he had a singular desire to meet with; and so, with a dreadful grace and assurance, fix­ing himself in his Stirrups, couching his Lance, and covering his Breast with his Target, he posted himself in the middle of the Road, ex­pecting the coming up of the suppos'd Knights-Errant. As soon as they came within hearing, with a loud Voice and a haughty Tone, hold, cry'd he, ‘Let all Mankind stand, nor hope to pass on further, unless all Mankind acknow­ledge and confess, that there is not in the Uni­verse a more beautiful Damsel than the Em­press of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.’ At those words the Merchants made a halt, to view the unaccountable Figure of their Opponent, and easily conjecturing both by his expression and his disguise, that the poor Gentleman had lost his Sences, they were wil­ling to understand the meaning of that strange confession, which he wou [...]d force from em; and therefore one of the Company, who lov'd [Page 35] and understood Raillery, having discretion to manage it, undertook to talk to him. ‘Sir Knight, cry'd he, we do not know this wor­thy Lady whom you talk of; but be pleas'd to let us see her, and then if we find her pos­sest of those matchless Charms of which you assert her to be the Mistress, we will freely and without the least compulsion own the truth which you wou'd extort from us. Had I once shew'd you that Beauty, reply'd Don Quixote, what wonder wou'd it be to have you acknowledge so notorious and evident a Truth? The Importance of the thing lies in obliging you to believe it, confess it, affirm it, swear it, and maintain it, without seeing her, and therefore make this acknowledgment this very moment, or know, 'tis with me you must joyn in Battle, 'ye proud and unreasona­ble Mortals. Come one by one, as the Laws of Chivalry require, or all at once, according to the dishonourable Practice of men of your Stamp, here I expect you all my single self, and will stand the encounter, confiding in the Justice of my Cause. Sir Knight, reply'd the Merchant, I beseech you in the name of us all the Princes here present, that for the discharge of our Consciences, which will not permit us to affirm a thing we never heard or saw, and which besides, tends so much to the dishonour of the Empresses and Queens of Al­carria, and Estremadura, your Worship will vouchsafe to let us see some Portraiture of that Lady, though 'twere no bigger than a grain of Wheat; for by a small sample we may judge of the whole piece, and by that means rest secure and satisfy'd, and you con­tented [Page 36] and appeas'd. Nay, I verily believe, that we all find our selves already so inclinable to comply with you, that tho her Picture shou'd represent her to be blind of one Eye, and distil­ling Vermillion and Brimstone at the other, yet to oblige you, we shou'd be ready to say in her Favor, whatever your Worship desires. Distil, ye infamous Scoundrels, reply'd Don Quixote, in a burning Rage! Distil, say you? Know that nothing distils from her but Am­ber, and Civit. Neither is she defective in her Eyes or Shape; but more strait than a Guadaramian Spindle. But you shall all se­verely pay for the horrid Blasphemy which thou hast utter'd against the transcendent Beauty of my incomparable Lady.’ Saying this, with his Lance couch'd, he ran so furi­ously at the Merchant who had thus provok'd him, that had not good fortune so order'd it that Rozinante should stumble, and fall in the midst of his Career, the audacious Trifler had paid dear for his Raillery. But as Rozinante fell, he threw down his Master, who roll'd and tumbled a good way on the ground, with­out being able to get upon his Legs, tho he us'd all his skill and strength to effect it; so encumbred he was with his Lance, Target, Spurs, Helmet, and the weight of his rusty Armor. However, in this helpless condition, he play'd the Hero wirh his Tongue, Stay, cry'd he, Cowards, Rascals, do not fly! 'Tis not thro my fault that I lye here, but thro that of my Horse, ye Poltroons.

One of the Grooms, who was none of the best natur'd Creatures, hearing the overthrown Knight thus insolently treat his Master, could [Page 37] not bear it, without returning him an answer on his Ribs; and therefore coming up to him, as he lay wallowing, he snatch'd his Lance; and having broke i [...] to pieces, he so be labour'd Don Quixote's sides with one of 'em, that in spight of his Arms he thresh'd him like a Wheatsheaf. His Master indeed call'd to him, not to lay him on so vigorously, and to let him alone; but the Fellow, whose hand was in, wou'd not give over rib-roasting the Knight, till he had tir'd out his passion and himself; and therefore run­ning to the other pieces of the broken Lance, he fell to't again without ceasing, till he had splinter'd them all on the poor Knight's Iron-Enclosure. He on his side, notwithstanding all this storm of Bastinadoes, lay all the while bellowing, threatning Heaven and Earth, and those villanous Ruffians, as he took 'em to be. At last the Mule-driver was tir'd, and the Merchants pursu'd their Journey, sufficiently furnish'd with matter of Discourse, at the poor Knights ex­pence. When he found himself alone, he try'd once more to get on his feet; but if he cou'd not do it when he had the use of all his limbs, how shou'd he do it now, bruis'd and batter'd as he was. But yet for all this, he esteem'd himself a happy man, being still perswaded that his misfortune was one of those accidents com­mon in Knight-Errantry; and such a one as he cou'd wholly attribute to the falling of his Horse; nor cou'd he possibly get up, so sore and mortify'd was his Body all over.

CHAP. V. A further account of our Knight's misfor­tunes.

DOn Quixote perceiving that he was not able to stir, resolv'd to have recourse to his usual Remedy, which was to bethink himself what passage in his Books, might afford him some Comfort, and presently his Folly brought to his remembrance the Story of Bald­win, and the Marquis of Mantua, when Charlot left the former wounded on the Mountain; a story learned and known by little Children, not unknown to young Men and Women, celebrated and even believ'd by the old; and yet not a jot more authentick, than the Miracles of Mahomet. This seem'd to him, as if made on purpose for his present circumstances, and therefore he fell a rolling and tumbling up and down, expressing the greatest pain and resentment, and breathing out with a languishing voice the same complaints, which the wounded Knight of the Wood is said to have made.

Thus he went on with the Lamentations in that Romance, till he came to these Verses,

When kind Fortune so order'd it, that a Plow-man, who liv'd in the same Village, and near his House, happen'd to pass by, as he came from the Mill with a sack of Wheat. The Fel­low seeing a Man lye at his full length on the ground, ask'd him, who he was, and why he made such a sad complaint? Don Quixote, whose distemper'd Brain presently represented to him the Country-man for the Duke of Mantua, his imaginary Unkle, made him no answer, but went on with the Romance, giving him an ac­count of his misfortunes, and of the Loves of his Wife, and the Emperors Son, just as the Book relates 'em. The Fellow star'd, much amaz'd to hear a man talk such unaccountable stuff, and taking off the visor of his Helmet, broken all to pieces, with the blows bestow'd upon't by the Mule-driver, he wip'd off the Dust that cover'd his Face, and presently knew the Gentleman. Master Quixada, cry'd he! (for so he was properly called, when he had the right use of his sences, and had not yet from a sober Gentleman, transform'd himself into a wandring Knight) how came you in this Condi­tion? but the other continu'd his Romance, and made no answers to all the Questions the Coun­tryman put to him; but what follow'd in course in the Book. Which the good man perceiving, he took off the batter'd Adventurer's Armor, as well as he cou'd, and fell a searching for his Wounds, but finding no sign of any Blood, or other hurt, he endeavour'd to set him upon his [Page 40] Legs; and at last with a great deal of trouble, he heav'd him upon his Ass, as being the more easy and gentle Carriage, he also got all the Knights Arms together, not leaving behind so much as the splinters of his Lance, and having ty'd 'em up, and laid 'em on Rozinante, which he took by the Bridle, and his Ass by the Halter, he led 'em all towards the Village, and trudg'd afoot himself very pensive, while he reflected on the extravagancies, which he heard Don Quixote utter: nor was Don Quixote himself less melancholick, for he felt himself so bruis'd and mortify'd, that he cou d hardly sit on the Ass, and now and then he breath'd such grievous sighs, as seem'd to pierce the very skies; which mov'd his compassionate Neighbour once more to entreat him, to declare to him the cause of his grief. But one wou'd have imagin'd the Devil prompted him with Stories, that had some re­semblance of his circumstances, for in that in­stant, wholly forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself of the Moor Abindaraez, when Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcayde of Antequera, took and carried him Prisoner to his Castle; so that when the Husbandman ask'd him again, how he did, and what ail'd him, he answer'd word for word, as the Prisoner Abencerrage, replies to Rodrigo de Narvaez, in the Diana of George de Monte-Mayor, where that Adventure is related; ap­plying it so properly to his purpose, that the Countryman curs'd himself to the Pit of Hell, for hearing his strange Nonsence; and being now fully convinced, that his Neighbours Brains were turn'd, he made all the haste he cou'd to the Village, to be rid of his tedious and troublesom impertinences. Don Quixote in the mean time, [Page 41] thus went on, You must know, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this Beautiful Xerifa, of whom I gave you an account, is at present the most lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whose sake I have done, still do, and will atchieve the most famous Deeds of Chivalry that ever were, are, or ever shall be seen in the Universe. Good Sir, reply'd the Husband-man, do you not plainly perceive that I am neither Don Rodrigo de Nar­vaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but only a poor Sinner, Pedro Alonso by name, your Wor­ships Neighbour? Nor are you Baldwin, nor Abindaraez, but only that worthy Gentleman Senior Quixada. I know very well who I am, answer'd Don Quixote; and what's more, I know that I may not only be the persons I have nam'd, but also the Twelve Peers of France, nay, and the nine Worthies all in one; since my Atchievements will out-rival not only the fa­mous Exploits which made any of 'em singly Il­lustrious, but all their mighty Deeds accumu­lated together.

Thus discoursing, they at last got near their Village about Sun-set; but the Country-man staid at some distance till 'twas dark, that the distressed Gentleman might not be seen so scur­vily mounted, and then he led him home to his own house, which he found in great confusion. The Curate and the Barber of the Village, both of 'em Don Quixote's intimate acquaintance, happen'd to be there at that juncture, as also the House-keeper, who was aguing with 'em. What do you think, pray good Doctor Perez, said she, (for this was the Curates Name) what do you think of my Masters mischance? Nei­ther he, nor his Horse, nor his Target, Lance, [Page 42] nor Armor have been seen these six days. What shall I do, wretch that I am? I dare lay my Life, and 'tis as sure as I am a living Creature, that those cursed Books of Errantry, which he us'd to be always poring upon, have set him be­sides his Sences; for now I remember I have heard him often mutter to himself, that he had a mind to turn Knight Errant, and jaunt up and down the world to find out Adventures. May Sathan and Barrabas e'en take all such Books that have thus crackt the best Head-piece in all La Mancha! His Neice said as much, addressing herself to the Barber. You must know, Mr Nicholas, quoth she (for that was his name) that many times my Unkle wou'd read you those unconscionable Books of Disventures for eight and forty hours together; then away he'd throw you his Book, and drawing his Sword, he'd fall a Fencing against the Walls, and when he had tir'd himself with cutting and slashing, he wou'd cry, he had kill'd Four Giants as big as any Steeples; and the sweat which he put himself into, he wou'd say, was the Blood of the Wounds he had re­ceiv'd in the Fight; then wou'd he swallow you a huge Jug of cold water, and presently he'd be as quiet, and as well as e're he was in his life; and he said that this same water was a sort of precious Drink brought him by the Sage^* Esquife, a great Magician, and his spe­cial Friend. Now 'tis I who am the Cause of of all this Mischief, for not giving you time­ly notice of my Unkle's Raving, that you [Page 43] might have put a stop to it, e're 'twas too late, and have burnt all those excommuni­cated Books; for there are I don't know how many of 'em that deserve as much to be burn'd as those of the rankest Hereticks. I am of your mind, said the Curate, and verily to morrow shall not pass over before I have fairly brought 'em to a Tryal, and condemn'd 'em to be burn'd, that they may not minister occasion to such as wou'd read 'em, to be perverted after the example of my good Friend. The Country­man, who with Don Quixote stood without, listning to all this Discourse, now perfectly understood by this the Cause of his Neighbor's disorder, and therefore without any more ado, he call'd our aloud, Here! House! O­pen the Gates there, for the Lord Baldwin, and the Lord Marquis of Mantua, who is coming sadly wounded, and for the Moorish Lord A­bindaraez, whom the valorous Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcayde of Antequera, brings Pri­soner. At which words they all got out of doors, and the one finding it to be her Unkle, and the other to be her Master, and the rest their Friend, who had not yet alighted from the Ass, because indeed he was not able, they all ran to embrace him; to whom Don Quixote, Forbear said he, for I am sorely hurt, by reason that my Horse failed me; carry me to Bed, and if it be possible let the Enchan­tress Ʋrganda be sent for, to cure my wounds. Now in the name of mischief, quoth the House-keeper, see whether I did not guess right, on which Foot my Master halted? Come, get you to Bed, I beseech you; and my life for yours, we'll take care to cure you [Page 44] without sending for that same Ʋrganda. A hearty Curse, and the Curse of Curses, I say it again and again a hundred times, light upon those Books of Chivalry that have put you in this pickle. Thereupon they carry'd him up to his Bed, and search'd for his wounds, but cou'd find none; and then he told them he was only bruis'd, having had a dread­ful fall from his Horse Rozinante, while he was fighting ten Giants, the most outrageous and audacious that ever cou'd be found upon the face of the Earth. How, cry'd the Curate, have we Giants too in combination against us? Nay then, may I forfeit my Habit, if I don't burn 'em all by to morrow night. Then did they ask the Don a thousand questions, but to every one he made no other answer, but that they shou'd give him something to eat, and then leave him to his Repose, a thing which was to him of greater importance. They comply'd with his desires, and then the Curate inform'd himself at large, in what condition the Country-man had found him, and having had a full account of every particular, as also of the Knight's extravagant talk, both when the Fellow found him, and as he brought him home, this encreas'd the Curate's desire of effecting what he had resolv'd to do the next morning. At which time he call'd upon his friend, Mr Nicholas the Barber, and went with him to Don Quixote's house.

CHAP. VI. Of the pleasant and curious Survey which the Curate and the Barber took of the Library of our ingenious Gentleman.

THe Knight was yet asleep, when the Cu­rate came attended by the Barber, and desired his Niece to let him have the Key of the Room, where her Unkle kept his Books, the authors of his Woes; she readily con­sented, and so in they went, and the House-keeper with 'em. There they found above a hundred large Volumes neatly bound; and a good number of small ones. As soon as the Housekeeper had spy'd 'em out, she ran out of the Study, and rerurn'd immediately with a Holy-water-pot and a Sprinkler, Here Doctor, cry'd she, pray sprinkle every Creek and Corner in the Room, lest there shou'd lurk in it some one of the many Sorcerers these Books swarm with, who might chance to bewitch us, for the ill will we bear 'em, in going about to send 'em out of the World. The Curate cou'd not for­bear smiling at the old womans simplicity, and desir'd the Barber to reach him the Books one by one, that he might peruse the Title pages, for perhaps they might find some among 'em, that might not deserve to be committed to the Flames. Oh, by no means cryed the Niece; spare none of em, they all helpt some how or other, to crack my Unkle's Brains. I fancy, [Page 46] we had best throw 'em all out at the Window into the Yard, and lay 'em together in a heap, and then set 'em o'fire, or else carry 'em into the Back yard, and there make a pile of 'em, and burn 'em, and so the smoke will offend no body. The Housekeeper join'd with her, so eagerly bent they were both upon the destruction of those poor Innocents. But the Curate wou'd not condescend to these irregular Proceedings, and resolv'd first to read at least the Title Pages of every Book.

The first that Mr Nicholas put into his hands was Amadis de Gaule, in four Volumes. There seems to be some mystery in this Books being the first taken down (cry'd the Curate, as soon as he had lookt upon't) for I have heard 'tis the first Book of Knight-Errantry, that ever was print­ed in Spain; and the model of all the rest; and therefore I am of opinion, that, as the first Teacher and Author of so pernicious a Sect, it ought to be condemn'd to the Fire without mercy, I beg a reprieve for him, cry'd the Bar­ber; for I have been told, 'tis the best Book that has been written in that kind; and there­fore as the only good thing of that sort, it may deserve a Pardon. Well then, reply'd the Cu­rate for this time, let him have it. Let's see that other, which lyes next to him. These, said the Barber, are the exploits of Esplandian, the law­fully begotten Son of Amadis de Gaule. Verily, said the Curate, the Fathers goodness, shall not ex­cuse the want of it in the Son. Here, good Mi­stress House-keeper open that Window, and throw it into the Yard, and let it serve as a foun­dation to that Pile we are to set a blazing pre­sently. She was not slack in her obedience, and [Page 47] thus poor Don Esplandian was sent headlong into the Yard, there patiently to wait the time of his fiery Tryal. To the next, cry'd the Curate. This, said the Barber, is Amadis of Greece; and I'm of opinion that all those that stand on this side are of the same Family. Then let 'em all be sent packing into the Yard, reply'd the Curate; for rather than lose the pleasure of burning Queen Antiquinestra and the Shepherd Darinel with his Eclogues, and the confounded unintelligible discourses of the Author, I think I shou'd burn my own Father along with 'em, if I met him in the disguise of a Knight-Errant. I am of your mind, cry'd the Barber. And I too, said the Niece. Nay then, quoth the old Female, let 'em come, and down with 'em all into the Yard. They were deli­ver'd to her accordingly, and many they were, so that to save herself the labour of carrying 'em down stairs, she fairly sent 'em flying out at Wjndow.

What overgrown piece of Lumber have we here? cry'd the Curate. Olivante de Laura, return'd the Barber. The same Author wrote The Garden of Flowers; and to deal ingenuously with you, I cannot well tell which of the two Books has most Truth in it; or, to speak more properly, less Lyes: But this I know for certain, that he shall march into the Back-Yard, like a nonsensical arrogant Blockhead as he is.

The next, cry'd the Barber, is Florismart of Hircania. How! my Lord Florismart, is he here, reply'd the Curate? Nay, then truly he shall e'en follow the rest to the Yard, in spight of his wonderful Birth and incredible Adven­tures; for his rough, dull and insipid stile de­serves [Page 48] no better usage. Come, toss him into the Yard, and this other too, good Mistress! With all my heart, quoth the Governess, and strait she was as good as her word.

Here's the noble Don Platir, cry'd the Bar­ber. 'Tis an old Book, reply'd the Curate; and I can think of nothing in him that deserves a grain of pity: Away with him, without any more words; and down he went accordingly.

Another Book was open'd, and it prov'd to be The Knight of the Cross. The holy Title, cry'd the Curate, might in some measure attone for the badness of the Book; but then, as the say­ing is, The Devil lurks behind the Cross! To the Flames with him.

Then the Barber taking down another Book, cry'd here's the Mirrour of Knighthood. Oh I have the honour to know him, reply'd the Cu­rate. There you shall find the Lord Rinaldo of Montaban, with his Friends and Companions, all of 'em greater Thieves than Cacus, toge­ther with the twelve Peers of France, and that faithful Historian Turpin. Truly, I must needs say, I am only for condemning 'em to perpetual Banishment, at least because their story con­tains something of the famous Boyardo's In­vention; out of which the Christian Poet A­riosto also borrow'd his subject; yet, if I happen to meet with him in this bad Company, and speaking in any other Language than his own, I ll show him no manner of favour; but if he talks in his own Native Tongue, I ll treat him with all the respect imaginable. I have him at home in Italian, said the Barber, but I can­not understand him. 'Tis not convenient you shou'd, reply d the Curate; and I cou'd wil­lingly [Page 49] have excus'd the good Captain who translated it, that trouble of attempting to make him speak Spanish; for he has depriv'd him of a great deal of his primitive Graces; a mis­fortune incident to all those who presume to translate Verses; since their utmost wit and indu­stry can never enable 'em, to preserve the native Beauties and Genius that shine in the original. For this reason, I am for having not only this Book, but likewise all those, which we shall find here treating of French affairs, thrown and deposited in some dry Vault, till we have ma­turely determin'd what ought to be done with 'em; give me leave to except one Bernardo del Carpio, that must be somewhere here among the rest, and another call'd Roncesvalles; for whenever I meet with 'em, I will certainly de­liver 'em up into the hands of the Secular pow­er. The Barber gave his approbation to every particular, well knowing that the Curate was so good a Christian, and so great a lover of truth, that he would not have uttered a fal­sity for all the world. Then opening another Volume, he found it to be Palmerin de Oliva, and the next to that, Palmerin of England. Ha! Have I found you, cry'd the Curate! Here, take that Oliva, let him be torn to pieces, then burnt, and his ashes scatter'd in the Air. But let Palmerin of England be preserv'd, as a singu­lar Relique of Antiquity; and let such a costly box be made for him, as Alexander found a­mong the Spoils of Darius, which he devoted to enclose Homer s Works. For I must tell you, Neighbor, that Book deserves particular respect for two things. First for its own Ex­cellencies; and Secondly, for the sake of its [Page 50] Author, who is said to have been a learned King of Portugal. Then, all the Adventures of the Castle of Miraguarda are well, and art fully manag'd. The Dialogue very courtly and clear, and the Decorum strictly observ'd in every Character, with equal Propriety and Judgment. Therefore, Mr Nicholas, continu'd he, with submission to your better advice, this and Amadis de Gaul shall be exempted from the Fire; and let all the rest be condemn'd without any further enquiry or examination. By no means, I beseech you, return'd the Barber; for this which I have in my hands is the fa­mous Don Bellianis. Truly, cry'd the Curate, he with his second, third, and fourth parts, had need of a Dose of Rhuharb to purge his excessive Choler: besides, his Castle of Fame shou'd be demolish'd, and a heap of other Rubbish remov'd: In order to which I give my Vote to grant 'em the benefit of Trans­portation; and as they shew signs of amend­ment, so shall Mercy or Justice be us'd to­wards 'em: In the mean time, Neighbor, take 'em into custody, and keep 'em safe at home, but let none be permitted to converse with 'em. Content, cry'd the Barber; and to save himself the labour of looking on any more Books of that kind, he bid the House-keeper take all the great Volumes and throw 'em into the Yard. She, who long'd to be at that Sport, as much as to be making her Wedding Smock, had no need of being twice spoken to; so that laying hold on no less than eight Volumes at once, she presently made 'em leap towards the place of Execution. But as she went too eagerly to work, taking more Books than she cou d [Page 51] conveniently carry, she happen'd to drop one at the Barbers Feet, which he took up out of Curiosity, to see what it was, and found it to be the History of the famous Knight Tirante the White; good lack-a-day, cry'd the Curate! Is Tirante the White here? Oh pray, good Neigh­bour, give it me by all means, for I promise my self to find in it a Treasure of Delight, and a Mine of Recreation. There we have that valo­rous Knight Don Kyrie-Eleiso of Montaban, with his Brother Thomas of Montaban, and the Knight Fonseca; the combat of the valorous Detriante with the Mastiff; the dainty and witty conceits of the Damsel Plazerdemivida, with the Loves and Guiles of the Widow Reposada; together with the Lady Empress, that was in Love with Hippolito her Gentleman Usher. I vow and protest to you, neighbour, continued he, that as for style there is not a better Book in the World. Why, here your Knights eat and drink, sleep and dye natural Deaths in their Beds, nay, and first make their last Wills and Testaments; with a World of other things, of which all the rest of these sort of Books don't say one syllable. Yet after all, I must tell you, that for wilfully taking the pains to write so many foolish things, the worthy Author fairly deserves to be sent to the Galleys for all the days of his life. Take it home with you and read it, and then tell me whether I have told the truth or no. I believe you, reply'd the Barber: But what shall we do with all these smaller Books that are left? Certainly, return'd the Curate, these cannot be Books of Knight Errantry; they are too small: You'll find they are only Poets. And so opening one, it happen'd to be the Dia­na [Page 52] of Montemayor, which made him say (believing all the rest to be of that stamp) These do not de­serve to be punisht like the others; for they neither have done, nor can do that mischief which those Stories of Chivalry have done; be­ing generally ingenious Books, that can do no body any prejudice. Oh! good Sir, cry'd the Neice, burn 'em with the rest, I beseech you; for shou'd my Unkle get cur'd of his Knight-Errant-Frenzy, and betake himself to the reading of these Books, we shou'd have him turn Shepherd, and so wander thro the Woods and Fields, nay, and what wou'd be worse yet, turn Poet, which they say is a catch­ing and an incurable Disease. The Gentlewo­man is in the right, said the Curate, and it will not be amiss to remove that stumbling Block­out of our Friends way; and since we began with the Diana of Montemayor, I am of opinion, we ought not to burn it, but only take out that part of it, which treats of the Magician Felicia, and the enchanted water; as also all the longer Poems; and let the work escape with its Prose, and the honour of being the chief of that kind. Here's another Diana, quoth the Barber, the se­cond of that name, by Salmantino, nay, and a third too, by Gil Polo. Pray, said the Curate, let Salmantino encrease the number of the Cr [...]mi­nals in the Yard; but as for that by Gil Polo, preserve it as charily, as if Apollo himself had wrote it; and go on as fast as you can, I be­seech you good Neighbour; for it grows late. Here, quoth the Barber, I've a Book call d the Ten Books of the Fortune of Love, written by An­thony de Lofrasco a Sardinian Poet. Now by my holy Orders, cry'd the Curate, I do not think, [Page 53] since Apollo was Apollo, the Muses, Muses, and the Poets, Poets, there was ever a more comi­cal, more silly Book. Of all the works of the kind, commend me to this; for in its way 'tis certainly the best, and most singular, that ever was publish'd, and he that never read it, may safely think, he never in his Life read any thing that was pleasant. Give it me Neighbour, con­tinu'd he, for I'm more glad to have found it, than if any one had given me a Cassock of the best Florence-Prunella. With that he laid it aside with extraordinary satisfaction, and the Barb [...] went on. These that follow, cry d he, are The Shepherd of Iberia, The Nymphs of Enares, and The Cure of Jealousy. Take 'em Jaylor, quoth the Curate, and never ask me why; for then w [...] shall ne're have done. The next, said the Barber, is The Shepherd of Filida, he's no Shepherd, re­turn'd the Curate; but a very discreet Courti [...], keep him as a precious Jewel. There's a bigge [...], cry'd the Barber, call'd The Treasure of divers Poems, had there been less of 'em, said the Cu­rate, they wou'd have been more esteem'd. 'Tis fit the Book shou'd be prun'd, and clear'd of se­veral trifles, that disgrace the rest. Keep it however, because the Author is my Friend, and for the sake of his other more heroic and lofty Productions. Here's a Book of Songs by Lopez Maldonado, cry'd the Barber, he's also my particular Friend said the Curate, his Verses are very well lik d when he reads em himself, and his voice is so excellent, that they charm us whenever he sings 'em. He seems indeed to be somewhat too long in his Eclogues; but can we ever have too much of a good Thing? let him be preserv'd among the best. What's the next Book? The [Page 54] Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes, reply'd the Barber. That Cervantes has been my intimate acquain­tance these many years, cry'd the Curate, and I know he has been more conversant with misfor­tunes than with Poetry: His Book indeed has I don't know what that looks like a good design; he aims at something, but concludes nothing: Therefore we must stay for the Second Part, which he has promis'd us; perhaps he may make us amends, and obtain a full Pardon, which is now deny'd him for the present; till that time keep him close Prisoner at your house. I will, quoth the Barber: but see, I have here three more for you, The Auricana of Don Alonso de Ercilla, The Austriada of Juan Ruffo, a Magistrate of Cordona, and the Monserra­to of Christopher de Virves, a Valentian Poet. These, cry'd the Curate, are the best Hereies we have in Spanish, and may vye with the most celebrated of Italy. Reserve em, as the most valuable performances which Spain has to boast of in Poetry.

At last, the Curate grew so tir'd with prying into so many Volumes, that he order'd all the rest to be burnt at a venture. But the Barber shew'd him one which he had open'd by chance ere the dreadful Sentence was past. Truly, said the Curate, who saw by the Title 'twas The Tears of Angelica, I shou'd have wept my self had I caus'd such a Book to share the Condem­nation of the rest; for the Author was not only one of the best Poets in Spain, but in the whole World; and translated some of Ovid's Fables with extraordinary success.

CHAP. VII. Don Quixote's second Sally in quest of Adventures.

WHile they were thus employ'd, Don Quix­ote in a raving fit began to talk aloud to himself. Here, here, valorous Knights, cry'd he, now's the time that you must exert the strength of your mighty Arms; for, lo! the Courtiers bear away the honour of the Tourna­ment. This amazing Outcry call'd away the Inquisitors from any further Examination of the Library, and therefore the House-keeper and the Neice being lest to their own discretion, 'tis thought The Carolea, and Leo of Spain, with the Deeds of the Emperour, written by Don Lewis D' Avila, which to be sure were part of the Collection, were committed to the flames un­seen and unheard, without any legal Tryal. A Fate which they perhaps might have escap'd, had the Curate been there to have weigh'd what might have been urg'd in their defence.

When they came into Don Quixote's Chamber, they found him risen out of his Bed, as mad as ever he was, tearing his throat and making a heavy bustle, laying about him with his Sword back-stroke and fore-stroke, as broad awake as if he had never slept. They ran in upon him, caught him in their arms, and carried him to bed again by main force; where, after he was somewhat quiet and settled, turning himself [Page 56] to the Curate, Certainly, cry'd he, my Lord Archbishop Turpin, 'tis a great dishonour to us who are call'd the twelve Peers, to suffer the Knights of the Court to bear away the honour of the Tournament without any further oppositi­on, after we the Knights Adventurers had car­ried it for three days before. Be pacify'd, my good Friend, reply'd the Curate; Fortune may have yet better success in reserve for you, and they who lose to day may win to morrow; at present, think on your health, for doubtless you must needs be now extremely tir'd, if not very much wounded. Wounded, reply'd Don Quixote! No, but as for being bruis'd, I will not deny it; for that base-born Knight, Don Orlando, has batter'd all my Limbs with the Trunk of an Oak, out of meer Envy, because he sees that I alone dare rival his Exploits. But may I no more be call'd Rinaldo of Mon­talban, if, in spight of all his Enchantments, I do not make him severely pay for this, as soon as I can leave my Bed; and therefore let my Dinner be brought in, for 'tis what I want most at this juncture, and then let me alone to revenge this abuse. Accordingly they brought him some Victuals, which when he had eaten, he fell asleep again, and they left him, all of 'em strangely amaz'd at his uncommon mad­ness. That Night the House-keeper burnt all the Books, not only those in the Yard, but all those that were in the House; and several suf­fer'd in the general calamity, that deserv'd to have been treasur'd up in everlasting Archives, had not their fate, and the remissness of the In­quisitor prevented it. And thus they made good the Proverb, That the good often fare the worse for the bad.

[Page 57]One of the Expedients, of which the Curate and the Barber bethought themselves in order to their friend's recovery, was to stop up the door of the Room where his Books lay, that he might not find it, nor miss them, when he rose; for they hop'd the effect wou'd cease, when they had taken away the cause; and they order'd, that if he enquir [...]d about it, they should tell him, that a certain Enchanter had carry'd away Study Books and all. Two days after, Don Quixote being got up, the first thing he did was to go visit his darling Books, and as he cou'd not find the Study, in the place where he had left it, he went up and down and lookt for it in every Room. Sometimes he came to the place where the door us'd to stand; and then stood feeling and groping about a good while, then cast his Eyes and star'd on every side, without speaking a word. At last, after a long deliberation, he thought fit to ask his House-keeper, which was the way to his Study? What Study, (answer'd the Woman, according to her instructions) or rather what nothing is it you look for? Alas, here's neither Study nor Books in the House now; for the Devil is run away with 'em all. No, 'twas not the Devil, said the Niece, but a Conjurer or an Enchanter, as they call 'em, who, since you went, came hither one night mounted on a Dragon, o'top of a Cloud, and then, alighting, went into your Study, where, what he did, he and the Devil best can tell, for he went out a while after; and flew out at the Roof of the House, leaving it all in a smoak; and when we went to see what he had done, we cou'd neither find the Books, nor so much as the very Study [Page 58] Only the House-keeper and I very well re­member, that as the wicked old man was go­ing away, he cry'd out aloud, that out of a private grudge, which he bore in his mind to the Owner of those Books, he had done the House a mischief, as we shou'd soon perceive. And then I think he call'd himself the Sage Muniaton. Not Muniaton, but Freston, you shou'd have said, cry'd Don Quixote. Truly, quoth the Niece, I can't tell whether 'twas Freston or Friston; but sure I am his name end­ed with a Ton. 'Tis so, return'd Don Quixote, for he is a famous Negromancer and my mor­tal Enemy; and bears me a great deal of ma­lice, foreseeing by his Art, that in spight of all his Spells, in process of time I shall fight and vanquish in single Combat, a Knight whose Interest he espouses; therefore he endeavours to do me all manner of mischief. But I dare as­sure him, that he drives against the stream, nor can his power reverse the first decrees of Fate. Who doubts of that, cry'd the Niece? But, dear Unkle, what makes you run your self into these quarrels? Had not you better stay at home and live in piece and quietness, than go rambling up and down like a Vagabond, and seeking for better Bread than is made of Wheat; without once so much as considering that many go to seek Wooll, and come home shorn themselves? Oh! good Niece, reply'd Don Quixote, how ill thou understand'st these matters? Know that before I'll suffer my self to be shorn, I'll tear and pluck off the beards of all those audacious Mortals, that shall but attempt to prophane the tip of one single hair within the Verge of these Mustachio's. To [Page 59] this neither the Niece nor the Governess thought fit to make any reply, for they perceiv'd the Knight began to grow angry. Full fifteen days did our Knight remain quietly at home, with­out betraying the least sign of his desire to re­new his Rambling, during which time there past a great deal of pleasant discourse between him and his two Cronies, the Curate and the Barber; while he maintain'd that there was nothing of which the world stood in so much need as Knights-Errant, wherefore he was re­solv'd to revive the Order. In which disputes Mr Curate sometimes contradicted him, and sometimes submitted; for had he not now and then given way to his fancies, there wou'd have been no conversing with him.

In the mean time, Don Quixote earnestly sol­licited one of his Neighbours, a Husbandman, and a good honest Fellow, if we may call a poor man honest, for he was poor indeed; poor in Purse, and poor in Brains; and in short the Knight talk'd so long to him, ply'd him with so many Arguments, and made him so many fair promises, that at last the poor silly Clown con­tented to go along with him, and become his Squire. Among other inducements to intice him to do it willingly, Don Quixote forgot not to tell him, that 'twas likely such an Adventure wou'd present it self, as might secure him the Conquest of some Island, in the time that he might be picking up a Straw or two; and then the Squire might promise himself to be made Governor of the place. Allur'd with these larg [...] promises, and many others, Sancho Panca (for that was the name of the fellow) forsook his Wife and Children, to be his Neighbours Squire.

[Page 60]This done, Don Quixote made it his business to furnish himself with Money; to which pur­pose, selling one House, mortgaging another, and losing by all, he at last got a pretty good summ together. He also borrow'd a Target of a friend, and having patch'd up his Head-piece and Beaver, as well as he cou'd, he gave his Squire notice of the day and hour when he in­tended to set out, that he might also furnish himself with what he thought necessary; but above all he charg'd him to provide himself with a Wallet; which Sancho promis'd to do, telling him, he wou'd also take his Ass along with him, which being a very good one, might be a great ease to him, for he was not us'd to tra­vel much a foot. The mentioning of the Ass, made the noble Knight pause a while, he mus'd and ponder'd, whether he had ever read of any Knight-Errant, whose Squire us'd to ride upon an Ass; but he cou'd not remember any prece­dent for it. However, he gave him leave at last to bring his Ass, hoping to mount him more honourably with the first opportunity, by un­horsing the next Discourteous Knight he shou'd meet. He also furnish'd himself with Shirts, and as many other necessaries as he cou'd con­veniently carry, according to the Inn-keepers injunctions. Which being done, Sancho Panca, without bidding either his Wife or Children good-b'y, and Don Quixote, without taking any more notice of his House-keeper or of his Niece, stole out of the Village one night, not so much as suspected by any body, and made such haste, that by break of day they thought themselves out of reach, shou'd they happen to be pursu'd. As for Sancho Panca, he rode like a Patriarch, [Page 61] with his Canvas Knapsack or Wallet, and his Leathern Bottle, having a huge desire to see himself Governour of the Island which his Ma­ster had promis'd him.

Don Quixote happen'd to strike into the same Road which he took the time before, that is, the Plains of Montiel, over which he travell'd with less Inconveniency than when he went a­lone, by reason it was yet early in the morning; at which time the Sun-beams being almost pa­rallel to the surface of the Earth, and not di­rectly darted down, as in the middle of the day, did not prove so offensive. As they jogg'd on, I beseech your Worship, Sir Knight-Errant, quoth Sancho to his Master, be sure you don't forget what you promis'd me about the Island! for I dare say I shall make shift to govern it, let it be never so big. You must know, Friend Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, that it has been the constant practice of Knights-Errant in for­mer ages to make their Squires Governours of the Islands or Kingdoms they conquer'd; now I am not only resolv'd to keep up that laudable Custom, but even to improve it, and outdo my Predecessors in Generosity; for whereas some­times, or rather most commonly, other Knights delay'd rewarding their Squires till they were grown old, and worn out with service, bad days, worse nights, and all manner of hard duty, and then put 'em off with some Title, either of Count, or at least Marquis of some Valley, or Province, of great or small extent: Now, if thou and I do but live, it may happen that before we have past six days together, I may conquer some Kingdom, having many other Kingdoms an­next to its Imperial Crown; and this wou'd fall [Page 62] out most luckily for thee, for then wou'd I pre­sently crown thee King of one of 'em. Nor do thou imagine this to be a mighty matter; for so strange accidents, and revolutions so sudden and so unforeseen, attend the Profession of Chivalry, that I might easily give thee a great deal more than I have promis'd. Why, shou'd this come to pass, quoth Sancho Panca, and I be made a King, by some such like Miracle as your Worship says, then happy be lucky, wou'd our Joane Gutierez be at least a Queen, and my Children Infanta's and Princes, an't like your Worship? Who doubts of that, cry'd Don Quixote? I doubt of it, reply'd Sancho Panca; for I can't help believing, that tho it should rain Kingdoms down upon the face of the Earth, not one of 'em wou'd sit well upon Joane Gutierez's Head: For I must needs tell you, she's not worth two brass Jacks to make a Queen of: No, Countess wou'd be better for her, an't please you; and that too, God help her, will be as much as she can handsomly ma­nage. Recommend the matter to Providence, return'd Don Quixote; 'twill be sure to give what's most expedient for thee: But yet dis­dain to entertain inferiour thoughts, and be not tempted to accept less than the Dignity of a Vice-roy. No more I won't, Sir, quoth San­cho: especially since I have so rare a Master as your Worship, who ll take care to give me whatever may be fit for me, and what I may be able to deal with.

CHAP. VIII. Of the good success which the valorous Don Quixote had in the most terrify­ing, and never-to-be-imagin'd Adven­ture of the Wind-mills; With other Transactions worthy to be transmitted to Posterity.

AS they were thus discoursing, they discover'd some thirty or forty Wind-mills that are in that Plain; and as soon as the Knight had spy'd 'em, Fortune, cry'd he, directs our affairs bet­ter than we our selves cou'd have wish'd: Look yonder, Friend Sancho, there are at least thirty outrageous Gyants, whom I intend to encoun­ter; and having depriv'd 'em of Life, we will begin to enrich our selves with their spoils: For they are lawful Prize, and the Extirpation of that cursed brood will be an acceptable ser­vice to Heaven. What Giants, quoth Sancho Panca? Those whom thou seest yonder, an­swer'd Don Quixote, with their long extended Arms; some of that detested Race have Arms of so immense a size, that sometimes they reach two leagues in length. Pray look better, Sir, quoth Sancho; those things yonder are no Gy­ants, but Wind-mills, and the Arms you fancy, are their Sails, which being whirl'd about by the Wind make the Mill go, 'Tis a sign, cry'd Don Quixote, thou art but little acquainted with [Page 64] Adventures! I tell thee, they are Gyants; and therefore if thou art affraid, go aside, and say thy Prayers, for I am resolv'd to engage in a dreadful unequal Combat against them all. This said, he clapt Spurs to his Horse Rozinante, without giving ear to his Squire Sancho, who bawl'd out to him, and assur'd him that they were Wind-mills, and no Gyants. But he was so fully possest with a strong conceit of the con­trary, that he did not so much as hear his Squires outcry, nor was he sensible of what they were, altho he was already very near 'em. Far from that, Stand, Cowards, cry'd he as loud as he cou'd; stand your ground, ignoble Creatures, and fly not basely from a single Knight, who dares encounter you all. At the same time the Wind rising, the Mill-sails began to move, which when Don Quixote spy'd, Base Miscre­ants, cry'd he, though you move more Arms than the Gyant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance. He most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady Dulcinea, imploring her assistance in this perilous Adventure, and so covering himself with his Shield, and couching his Lance, he rush'd with Rozinante's utmost speed, upon the first Wind-mill he cou'd come at, and running his Lance into the Sail, the Wind whirl'd it about with such swiftness, that the rapidity of the motion presently broke the Lance into Shivers, and hurl'd away both Knight and Horse along with it, till down he fell rowling a good way off in the Field. San­cho Panca ran as fast as his Ass cou'd drive to help his Master, whom he found lying and not able to stir, such a blow he and Rozinante had receiv'd. Mercy o'me, cry'd Sancho, did [Page]

[Page] [Page 65] not I give your Worship fair warning! did not I tell you they were Wind-mills, and that no body cou'd think otherwise, unless he had also Wind-mills in his head? Peace, friend Sancho, reply d Don Quixote. There is nothing so subject to the inconstancy of Fortune at War; I am verily perswaded, that cursed Ne­gromancer Freston, who carry'd away my Stu­dy and my Books, has transform'd these Gy­ants into Wind-mills to deprive me of the ho­nour of the Victory; such is his inveterate malice against me. But in the end, all his pernicious wiles and stratagems shall prove in­effectual against the prevailing edge of my Sword. Amen, say I, reply'd Sancho; and so heaving him up again upon his Legs, once more the Knight mounted poor Rozi­nante, that was half shoulder-slipt with his fall.

This Adventure was the subject of their dis­course, as they made the best of their way to­wards the Pass of Lapice, for Don Quixote took that Road, believing he cou'd not miss of Ad­ventures in one so mightily frequented. How­ever, the Loss of his Lance, was no small affliction to him, and as he was making his complaint about it to his Squire, I have read, said he, friend Sancho, that a certain Spanish Knight, whose name was Diego Perez de Vargas, having broken his Sword in the heat of an en­gagement, tore down a huge massy Branch of an Oak, and did such wonderful Ex­ecution, crushing and grinding so many Moors with it that day, that he won himself and his Posteriy the Surname of [Page 66] ^* The Grinder. I tell thee this, because I intend to tear down from the next Oak we meet, a branch as good as that at least, with which I hope to perform such wondrous Deeds, that thou wilt esteem thy self parti­cularly happy in having had the honor to be­hold 'em, and been the ocular witness of At­chievements, which Posterity will scarce be able to believe. Heaven grant you may, cry'd Sancho; I believe it all, because your Worship says it. But an't please you, sit a little more upright in your Saddle; you ride sideling methinks; but that, I suppose, proceeds from your being bruis'd by the fall. It does so, re­ply'd Don Quixote; and if I do not complain of the pain, 'tis because a Knight-Errant must never complain of his Wounds, though his Bowels were dropping out thro 'em. Then I've no more to say, quoth Sancho, and yet Heaven knows my heart, I shou'd be glad to hear your Worship hone a little now and then, when something ails you. Don Quixote cou'd not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his Squire, and told him, he gave him leave to complain not only when he pleas'd, but as much as he pleas'd, whether he had any cause or no; for he had never yet read any thing to the contrary in any Books of Chivalry. San­cho desired him however to remember 'twas high time to go to Dinner; but his Master an­swer'd him, that he might eat when e're he pleas'd, as for himself he was not yet dispos'd to do it. Sancho having thus obtain'd leave, [Page 67] fix'd himself as orderly as he cou'd upon his Ass, and taking some Victuals out of his Wal­let, fell to munching lustily as he rode behind his Master, and ever and anon he lifted his Bottle to his Nose, and fetch'd such hearty pulls, that 'twou d have made the best pam­per'd Vintner in Malaga adry to have seen him. While he thus went on stuffing and swilling, he did not think in the least of all his Masters great promises; and was so far from esteeming it a trouble, to travel in quest of Adventures, that he fancied it to be the greatest pleasure in the world, tho they were never so dreadful.

In fine, they past that Night under some Trees; from one of which Don Quixote tore a wither'd Branch, which in some sort was able to serve him for a Lance, and to this he fixt the Lead or Spear of his broken Lance. But he did not sleep all that night, keeping his Thoughts intent on his dear Dulcinea, in imi­tation of what he had read in Books of Chi­valry, where the Knights pass that time without sleep, in Forests and Desarts, wholly taken up with the entertaining thoughts of their absent Mistresses. As for Sancho, he did not spend the Night at that idle rate, for having his Paunch well stuff'd with something more than Wind, he made but one nap of it, and had not his Master wak'd him, neither the sprightly beams which the Sun darted on his face, nor the melody of the Birds that chearfully on eve­ry branch welcom'd the smiling morn, wou'd have been able to have made him stir. As he got up, to clear his eye-sight, he took two or three long-winded swiggs at his friendly Bot­tle, [Page 68] for a Mornings Draught: But he found it somewhat lighter than it was the night before; which misfortune went to his very heart; for he shrewdly mistrusted that he was not in a way to cure it of that distemper as soon as he cou'd have wish'd. On the other side, Don Quixote wou'd not break fast, having been feast­ing all night on the more delicate and savoury thoughts of his Mistress; and therefore they went on directly towards the Pass of Lapice, which they discover'd about three a clock. When they came near it, Here it is, Brother Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote, that we may wan­ton, and as it were thrust our Arms up to the very Elbows in that which we call Adventures. But let me give thee one necessary Cau [...]i [...]n, Know that tho thou shou'dst see me in the greatest extremity of Danger, thou must not offer to draw thy Sword in my defence, unless thou findst me assaulted by base Plebeians and vile Scoundrels, for in such a case thou mayst assist thy Master. But if those with whom I am fighting are Knights, thou must not do it, for the Laws of Chivalry do not allow thee to en­counter a Knight, till thou art one thy self. Never fear, quoth Sancho; I'll be sure to obey your Worship in that, Ill warrant you; for I've ever lov'd peace and quietness, and never car'd to thrust my self into Frays and Quar­rels; and yet I don't care to take blows at a­ny ones hands neither, and shou'd any Knight offer to set upon me first, I fancy I should hardly mind your Laws; for all Laws, whe­ther of God or Man, allows one to stand on his own defence, if any offer to do him a mis­chief. I agree to that, reply'd Don Quixote; [Page 69] but as for helping me against any Knights, thou must set bounds to thy natural impulses. I'll be sure to do it, quoth Sancho. Ne're trust me if I don't keep your Commandment as well as I do the Sabbath.

As they were talking, they spy'd coming to­wards 'em two Monks of the order of St Bennet, mounted on two Dromedaries, for the Mules on which they rode were so high and stately, that they seem'd little less. They wore Riding-Masks with Glasses at the Eyes, against the Dust, and Umbrella's to shelter 'em from the Sun. After 'em came a Coach with four or five Men on Horseback, and two Muleteers afoot. There prov'd to be in the Coach a Biscayan La­dy, who was going to Sevill to meet her Hus­band that was there, in order to embark for the Indies, to take possession of a considerable Post. Scarce had Don Quixote perceiv'd the Monks, who were not of the same company, tho they went the same way, but he cry'd to his Squire, Either I am deceiv'd, or this will prove the most famous Adventure that ever was known; for without all question, those two black things that move towards us must be some Negro­mancers, that are carrying away by force some Princess in that Coach; and tis my Duty to prevent so great an Injury. I fear me, this will prove a worse job than the Wind-mills, quoth Sancho. Slife, Sir, don't you see these are Be­nedictin Fryars, and 'tis likely the Coach be­longs to some Travellers that are in't. There­fore once more take warning, and don't you be led away by the Devil. I have already told thee, Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, thou art miserably ignorant in matters of Adventures. [Page 70] What I say is true, and thou shalt find it so presently. This said, he spurr'd on his Horse, and posted himself just in the midst of the Road, where the Monks were to pass. And when they came within hearing, Curst Implements of Hell, cry'd he, in a loud and haughty tone, im­mediately release those high-born Princesses, whom you are violently conveying away in that Coach, or else prepare to meet with instant Death, as the just Punishment of your pernici­ous deeds. The Monks stopt their Mules, no less astonish'd at the Figure than at the Expres­sions of the Speaker. Sir Knight, cry'd they, we are no such persons as you are pleas'd to term us, but Religious men, of the Order of St Be­nedict, that travel about our affairs, and are wholly ignorant whether or no there are any Princesses carried away by force in that Coach. I'm not to be deceiv'd with fair words, reply'd Don Quixote, I know you well enough, perfi­dious Caitiffs: and immediately, without ex­pecting their reply, he set Spurs to Rozinante, and ran so furiously with his Lance couch'd a­gainst the first Monk, that if he had not prudent­ly flung himself off to the ground, the Knight wou'd certainly have laid him either dead or grievously wounded. The other, observing the discourteous usage of his Companion, clapt his heels to his over-grown Mule's Flanks, and scowr'd o're the Plain, as if he had been run­ning a race with the Wind. Sancho Panca no sooner saw the Monk fall, but he nimbly skipt off his Ass, and running to him, began to strip him immediately: But then the two M [...]leteers, who waited on the Monks, came up to him, and askt why he offer'd to strip him? Sancho [Page 71] told them, that this belong'd to him as lawful Plunder, being the Spoils won in Battel by his Lord and Master Don Quixote. The fellows, with whom there was no jesting, not knowing what he meant by his Spoils and Battel, and seeing Don Quixote at a good distance, in deep discourse by the side of the Coach, fell both upon poor Sancho, threw him down, tore his Beard from his Chin, crampled on his Guts, thump'd and ma [...]'d him in every part of his Carcass, and there left him sprawling, without breath or motion. In the mean while, the Monk, scar d out of his wits, and as pale as a Ghost, got upon his Mule again as fast as he cou'd, and spurr'd after his friend, who staid for him at a distance, expecting the issue of this strange Adventure; but being unwil­ling to stay to see the end of it, they made the best of their way, making more signs of the Cross than if the Devil had been posting after 'em.

Don Quixote, as I said, was all that while engag d with the Ladies in the Coach; Lady, cry'd he, your Discretion is now at liberty to dispose of your beautiful self as you please; for the presumptuous arrogance of those who attempted to enslave your person lies prostrate in the dust, overthrown by this my strenuous Arm; and that you may not be at a loss for the name of your Deliverer, Know, I am call'd Don Quixote de la Mancha, by Professi­on a Knight-Errant, and Adventurer, Captive to that peerless Beauty, Donna Dulcinea del Toboso. Nor do I desire any other recompence for the service I have done you, but that you [Page 72] return to Toboso to present your selves to that Lady, and let her know what I have done to purchase your deliverance. To this extrava­gant talk, a certain Biscayan Squire, Gentle­man Usher, or what you'll please to call him, who rode along with the Coach, listen'd with great attention, and perceiving that Don Quixote not only stopt the Coach, but wou'd have it presently go back to Toboso, he bore briskly up to him, and laying hold on his Lance, Get gone, (cry'd he to him in bad Spanish and worse Biscayan) Get gone, thou Knight, and De­vil go with thou, or by the he who me create, if thou no leave the Coach, me kill thee now so sure as me be Biscayan. Don Quixote, who made shift to understand him well enough, very calmly made him this answer. Wer't thou a Knight or Gentleman,^* as thou art not, ere this I wou'd have chastiz'd thy insolence and temeri­ty, thou inconsiderable Mortal. What, me no Gentleman, reply'd the Biscayan? I swear thou be Lyar, as me be Christian. If thou throw a­way Lance, and draw Sword, me will make no more of thee than Cat does of Mouse. Me will show thee me be Biscayan, and Gentleman by Land, Gentleman by Sea, Gentleman in spite of Devil, and thou lye if thou say con­trary. I'll try Titles with you, as the man said, reply'd Don Quixote; and with that throwing away his Lance, he drew his Sword, grasp'd his Target, and attack'd the Biscay­an, [Page 73] fully bent on his Destruction. The Bis­cayan seeing him come on so furiously, wou d gladly have alighted, not trusting to his Mule, which was one of those scurvy Jades that are let out to hire; but all he had time to do, was only to draw his Sword, and snatch a Cushion out of the Coach, to serve him instead of a Shield; and immediately they assaulted one another with all the Fury of Mortal Enemies. The by-standers did all they cou'd to prevent their fighting; but 'twas in vain; for the Biscayan swore in his gibberish he wou'd kill his very Mi­stress, and all those who presum'd to hinder him, if they wou'd not let him fight. The Lady in the Coach, being extremely affright­ed at these Passages, made her Coachman drive out of harms way, and at a distance, was an Eye-witness of the furious Combat. At the same time, the Biscayan let fall such a mighty blow on Don Quixote s shoulder over his Target, that had not his Armour been Sword proof, he wou'd have cleft him down to the very Waste. The Knight feel­ing the weight of that unmeasurable Blow, cry'd out aloud, Oh, Lady of my Soul, Dulcinea! flower of all Beauty, vouch­safe to succour your Champion in this dangerous Combat, undertaken to set forth your worth. The breathing out of this short Prayer, the griping fast of his Sword, the covering of himself with his Shield, and the Charging of his Enemy, was but the work of a Mo­ment; for Don Quixote was resolv d to [Page 74] venture the Fortune of the Combat all upon one blow. The Biscayan, who read his Design in his dreadful Coun­tenance, resolv'd to face him with e­qual ravery, and stand the terrible shock, cover'd with the Cushion, not being able to manage his Jaded Mule, who, defying the Spur, and all other provocations, wou'd move neither to the Right nor to the Left. While Don Quixote thus with his Sword aloft was rushing upon the wary Biscayan with a full resolution to cleave him asunder; all the Spectators stood trembling with Terrour and Amazement, expecting the dread­ful event of those prodigious blows which threaten'd the two desperate Combatants: The Lady in the Coach with her Women were ma­king a thousand Vows and Offerings to all the places of Devotion in Spain, that Providence might deliver them and the Squire out of the great danger that threaten'd 'em.

But here we must deplore the abrupt end of this History, which the Author leaves off just at the very point when the Fortune of the Battel is going to be decided, pretend­ing that he cou'd find nothing more record­ed of Don Quixote s wondrous Atchievements than what he had already related. How­ever, the second undertaker of this work cou'd not believe that so curious a Histor [...] cou'd lye for ever inevitably buried in obli­vion; or that the Learned of La Mancha were so regardless of their Countries glory, as not to preserve in their Archives, or at least in [Page 75] their Closets, some Memoirs, as Monuments of that famous Knight; and therefore he wou'd not give over enquiring after the Con­tinuation of this pleasant History, till at last he happily found it, as the next Book will in­form the Reader.

CHAP. I. The event of the most stupendous Combat between the brave Biscayan, and the va­lorous Don Quixote.

IN the first Book of this History we left the va­liant Biscayan, find the Renown'd Don Quix­ote, with their Swords lifted up, and ready to let fall on each other, two furious and most [Page 78] terrible blows, which had they fall'n directly, and met with no opposition, wou'd have cut and divided the two Combatans from Head to Heel, and have split 'em like a Pomgranate. But as I said before, the story remain'd imper­fect, neither did the Author inform us, where we might find the remaining Part of the Rela­tion. This vext me extremely, and turn'd the pleasure, which the perusal of the beginning had afforded me, into disgust, when I had reason to despair of ever seeing the rest. Yet, after all, it seem'd to me no less impossible, than un­just, that so valiant a Knight shou'd have been destitute of some learned Person, to record his incomparable Exploits; a misfortune which never attended any of his Predecessors, I mean the Knights Adventurers, each of whom was always provided with one or two learned Men, who were always at hand, to write, not only their wondrous Deeds; but also to set down their trivial Thoughts, were they never so hidden. Therefore, as I cou'd not imagin, that so worthy a Knight shou'd be so unfor­tunate, as to want that, which has been so pro­fusely lavish'd, even on such a one as Platyr, and others of that stamp, I cou'd not induce my self to believe, that so admirable a History was ever left unfinish'd: And rather chose to think that Time, the devourer of all things, had either hid or consum'd it. On the other side, when I consider'd that several Modern Books were found in his Study, as The Cure of Jealousy, and The Nymphs and Shepherds of Hena­res, I had reason to think, that the History of our Knight cou'd be of no very antient date, and that, had it never been continu'd, yet his [Page 79] Neighbours and Friends, cou'd not have forgot the most remarkable passages of his Life, Full of this imagination, I resolv'd to make it my business to make a particular and exact in­quiry; into the Life and Miracles of our re­nown'd Spaniard, Don Quixote, that refulgent Glory and Mirror, of the Knighthood of la Mancha, and the first, who in these deprav'd and miserable times, devoted himself to the neglected profession of Knight-Errantry, to redress Wrongs and Injuries, to relieve Wi­dows, and defend the honour of Damsels; such of 'em, I mean, who in former Ages, rode up and down with Whip in hand, mounted on their Palfreys, with all their Virginity about 'em, secure from all manner of danger, and who, unless they happen'd to be ravish'd by some boisterous Villain, or huge Giant, were sure, at fourscore years of Age, (all which Time, they never Slept one Night under a Roof) to be decently laid in their graves, as pure Vir­gins as their very Mothers. For this reason and many others, I say, our gallant Don Quixote is worthy everlasting and universal praise; nor ought I to be deny'd my due commendation for my indefatigable care and diligence in seeking and finding out the continuation of this delightful History; tho after all I must confess, that had not Providence, Chance, or Fortune, as I will now inform you, assisted me in the discovery, the World had been depriv'd of two hours diversion and pleasure, which 'tis likely to afford to those, who will read it with attention.

One day being in the Alcana at Toledo, I saw a young Lad offer to sell a Parcel of old written [Page 80] Papers to a Groom; now I being apt to take up the least piece of written or printed Papers that lies in my way, tho 'twere in the middle of the street, cou'd not forbear laying my hands on one of the quires, to see what it was, and I found it to be written in Arabick, which I cou'd not read. This made me look about to see whether I cou'd find e're a Moorish Rabbi to read it for me, and give me some account of it; nor was it very difficult to meet with an Inter­preter there, for had I wanted one for a better and more ancient Tongue that place wou'd in­fallibly have supply'd me. 'Twas my good Fortune to find one immediately, and having inform'd him of my desire, he no sooner read some lines, but he began to laugh: I ask'd him what he laught at? At a certain Remark here in the Margin of the Book, said he. I pray'd him to explain it; whereupon, still laughing, he did it in these words. This Dulcinea del To­boso, so often mention'd in this History, is said to have had the best hand at Salting of Pork of any Woman in all La Mancha. I was surpriz'd when I heard him name Dulcinea del Toboso, and presently imagin'd that those old Papers contain'd the History of Don Quixote. This made me press him to read the Title of the Book, which he did, turning it thus extempore out of Arabick, The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by Cid Ha­met Benengely, an Arabian Historiographer. I was so overjoy'd when I heard the Title, that I had much ado to conceal it; and presently taking the Bargain out of the Grooms hands, I agreed with the young man for the whole, and bought that for half a Real which he might have sold me for twenty times as much, had he [Page 81] but guess'd at the eagerness of his Chapman. I immediately withdrew with my Purchase to the Cloyster of the great Church, taking the Moor with me; and desir'd him to translate me all those papers that treated of Don Quixote, without adding or omitting the least word: offering him any reasonable satisfaction. He ask'd me but two^* Arrobes of Raisins, and two Bushels of Wheat, and promis'd me to do it faithfully with all expedition. In short, for the quicker dispatch, and the greater security, being unwilling to let such a lucky prize go out of my hands, I took the Moor to my own house, where in less than six weeks he finish'd the whole Translation.

Don Quixote's Fight with the Biscayan was exactly drawn on one of the leaves of the first quire, in the same posture as we left 'em, with their Swords lifted up over their heads, the one guarding himself with his Shield, the other with his Cushion. The Biscayan's Mule was pictur'd so to the life, that with half an eye you might have known it to be a hir'd Mule. Under the Biscayan was written, Don Sancho de Aspetia, and under Rozinante, Don Quixote. Rozinante was so admirably delineated, so slim, so stiff, so lank, so lean, so jaded, with so sharp a Ridge-bone, and altogether so like one wast­ed with an incurable Consumption, that any one must have own'd, at first sight, that no Horse ever better deserv'd that name. Not far off stood Sancho ^† Panca, holding his Ass by the [Page 82] Halter; and at whose feet there was a crowl, in which was written, Sancho ^* Cancas. And if we may judge of him by his Picture, he was thick and short, paunch-belly'd, and long-haunch'd; so that in all likelihood for this rea­son he is sometimes call'd Panca, and some­times Cancas in the History. There were some other niceties to be seen in that Piece, but hard­ly worth observation, as not giving any light into this true History, otherwise they had not past unmention'd. For none can be amiss so they be authentic. I must only acquaint the Reader, that if any objection is to be made as to the veracity of this, 'tis only that the Author is an Arabian, and those of that Country are not a little addicted to Lying. But yet if we consider that they are our Enemies, we shou'd sooner imagine that the Author has rather sup­prest the Truth, than added to the real worth of our Knight; and I am the more inclinable to think so, because 'tis plain that where he ought to have inlarg'd upon his Praises, he malicious­ly chuses to be silent. A proceeding unworthy of an Historian, who ought to be exact, sincere, and impartial; free from passion, and not to be byass'd either by interest, fear, resentment or affection, to deviate from Truth, which is the Mother of History, the Preserver and Eter­nizer of great Actions, the profest Enemy of Oblivion, the Witness of things past, and the Director of future Times. As for this History, I know 'twill afford you as great variety as you cou'd wish in the most entertaining; and if in [Page 83] any point it falls short of your expectation, I am of opinion 'tis more the fault of the unwor­thy Author, than the subject; and so let us come to the Second Book, which, according to our Translation, began in this manner

Such were the bold and formidable looks of the two enrag'd Combatants, that with up­lifted Arms, and with destructive Steel, they seem'd to threaten Heaven, Earth, and the In­fernal Mansions; while the spectators seem'd wholly lost in fear and astonishment. The Cholerick Biscayan discharg'd the first blow, and that with such a prodigious force, and so desperate a fury, that had not his Sword turn'd in his hand, that single stroke had put an end to the dreadful Combat, and all our Knights Adventures. But Fate, that reserv'd him for greater things, so order'd it, that his Enemy's Sword turn'd in such a manner, that tho it struck him on the left Shoulder, it did him no other hurt than to disarm that side of his head, carrying away with it a great part of his Hel­met, and one half of his Ear, which like a dreadful Ruin fell together to the ground. Assist me, ye Powers! But 'tis in vain: The Fury which then engrost the Breast of our He­ro of La Mahcha is not to be exprest; words wou'd but wrong it; for what colour of Speech can be lively enough to give but a slight Sketch or faint Image of his unutterable Rage? Exert­ing all his Valour, he rais'd himself upon his Stirrups, and seem'd even greater than himself, and at the same instant griping his Sword fast with both hands, he discharg'd such a tremen­dous blow full upon the Biscayans Cushion and his Head, that in spight of so good a defence [Page 84] as if a whole Mountain had faln upon him, the Blood gusht out at his Mouth, Nose and Ears all at once, and he totter'd so in his Saddle, that he had faln to the ground immediately, had he not caught hold of the neck of his Mule. But the dull Beast itself being rous'd out of its stupidity with that terrible blow, began to run about the Fields, and the Biscayan having lost his Stirrups, and his hold, with two or three winces the Mule shook him off, and threw him on the ground. Don Quixote beheld the disaster of his Foe with the greatest Tranquility and Un­concern imaginable; and seeing him down, slipt nimbly from his Saddle, and running to him, set the point of his Sword to his Throat, and bid him yield, or he wou'd cut off his Head. The Biscayan was so stunn'd that he cou'd make him no reply; so that Don Quixote had certainly made good his threats, had not the Ladies in the Coach, who with great uneasiness and fear had beheld these sad transactions, hasten'd to beseech Don Quixote very earnestly to spare his life. Truly, Beautiful Ladies, said the Victo­rious Knight, with a great deal of loftiness and gravity, I am willing to grant your Request; but upon condition that this same Knight shall pass his word of honour to go to Toboso, and there present himself in my Name before the Peerless Lady Donna Dulcinea, that she may dispose of him as she shall see convenient. The Lady, who was frighted almost out of her sences, without considering what Don Quixote enjoyn'd, or enquiring who the Lady Dulcinea was, promis'd in her Squires behalf, a punctual obedience to the Knights Commands. Let him live then, reply'd Don Quixote, upon your [Page 85] word, and owe to your Intercession, that Pardon, which I might justly deny his arro­gance.

CHAP. II. What further befel Don Quixote with the Biscayan, and of the danger which he ran, among a parcel of Janguessians.

SAncho Panca was got up again before this, not much the better for the Kicks and Thumps, bestowed on his Carcass by the Monks Grooms; and, seeing his Ma­ster engag'd in Fight, he went devoutly to Prayers, beseeching Heaven to grant him Victory, and that he might now win some Island, in order to his being made Governor of it, ac­cording to his promise. At last, perceiving the danger was over, the Combat at an end, and his Master ready to mount again, he ran in all haste to help him; but e're the Knight put his Foot in the stirrup, Sancho fell on his Knees, before him, and kissing his hand, An't please your Worship, cry'd he, my good Lord, Don Quixote, I beseech you to make me Governor of the Island, which you have won in this dread­ful and bloody Fight, for tho it were never so great, I find my self able to govern it, as well as the best he that ever went about to go­vern an Island in this World. Brother Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, these are no Adventures of Islands; these are only Rencounters on the [Page 86] Road, where little is to be got besides a broken Head, or the loss of an Ear; therefore have patience, and some Adventure will offer itself, which will not only enable me to prefer thee to a Government; but even to something more considerable. Sancho gave him a world of Thanks, and having once more kiss'd his hand, and the skirts of his Coat of Armor, he help'd him to get upon Rozinante, and then, leaping on his Ass, he follow'd the Hero, who, with­out taking leave of those in the Coach, put on a good round Trot, and rode into a Wood, that was not far off. Sancho made after him as fast as his Ass wou'd trot; but finding that Ro­zinante was like to leave him behind, he was forc'd to call to his Master, to stay for him, Don Quixote accordingly check'd his Horse, and soon gave Sancho leisure to overtake him. Methinks, Sir, cry'd the fearful Squire, as soon as he came up with him, it won't be amiss for us, to betake our selves to some Church, to get out of harms way; for if that same man whom you've fought with, shou'd do otherwise than well, I dare lay my life, they ll get a Warrant from the Holy Brotherhood, and have us taken up, which if they do, on my word, 'twill go hard with us, e're we can get out of their Clutches. Hold thy Tongue, cry'd Don Quixote! Where didst thou ever read, or find, that any Knight Errant was ever brought before a Judge for the Homicides which he com­mitted? I can't tell what you mean by your homilies, reply'd Sancho; I don t know that ever I saw any in my born days, not I. But well I wot, that the Law lays hold on those that go to murther one another in the Fields, and as for [Page 87] your what d'ye call 'ems, I've nothing to say to em. Then be not affraid, good Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote, for I wou'd deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, and with much more ease out of those of the Holy Brotherhood. But come tell me truly, dost thou believe the whole World can boast of another Knight, that may pretend to rival me in valour? Didst thou ever read in History, that any other ever show'd more resolution to undertake, more vigour to attack, more breath to hold out, more dexterity and activity to strike, and more art and force to overthrow his Enemies? Not I, by my Troth, reply'd Sancho, for I ne­ver cou'd read nor write; but that which I dare wager, is, that I never in my Life serv'd a bolder master than your Worship; pray Hea­ven this same boldness mayn't bring us to what I bid you beware of; all I've to put you in mind of now is, that you get your Ear dress'd, for you lose a deal of Blood; and by good luck, I have here some Lint, and a little White-Salve in my Wallet. How needless wou'd all this have been, cry'd Don Quixote, had I but bethought my self of making a small Bottle-full of the Balsam of Fierabras, a single drop of which wou'd have spar'd us a great deal of Time and Medicaments! What is that same Balsam, an't please you, cry'd Sancho? A Bal­sam, answer'd Don Quixote, of which I've the Receipt in my Head, he that has some of it may defy Death itself; and dally with all manner of wounds; therefore, when I have made some of it, and given it thee, if at any time thou happen'st to see my Body cut in two, by some unlucky Back-stroke, as 'tis common among us [Page 88] Knights-Errant, thou hast no more to do, but to take up nicely that half of me, whith is fal­len to the Ground, and clap it exactly to the other half on the Saddle, before the Blood's congeal'd, always taking care to lay it just in its proper place; then thou shalt give me two Draughts of that Balsam, and thou shalt im­mediately see me become whole and sound as an Apple. If this be true, quoth Sancho, I'll quit you of your Promise about the Island this minute of an hour, and will have nothing of your Worship, for what service I have done, and am to do you, but the Receipt of that same Balsam; for I dare say, let me go where-ever I will, 'twill be sure to yield me three good Reals an Ounce, and thus I shall make shift to pick a pretty good livelihood out on't. But stay tho, continu'd he, do's the making stand your Worship in much, Sir? Three Quarts of it, reply'd Don Quixote, may be made for less than 3 Reals. Body of me, cry'd Sancho, why don't you make some out of hand, and teach me how to make it. Say no more, Friend Sancho, return'd Don Quixote, I intend to teach thee much greater secrets, and design thee nobler Rewards; but in the mean time dress my Ear, for it pains me more than I cou'd wish. Sancho then took his Lint and Ointment out of his Wal­let; but when Don Quixote perceiv'd the Vizor of his Helmet was broken, he had like to have run stark staring mad, strait laying hold on his Sword, and lifting up his Eyes to Heaven, By the Bowels of my Father, cry'd he, by my Alle­giance to Dulcinea, by the whole Frame of Na­ture, I swear to lead a Life like the great Mar­quis of Mantua, when he made a vow to re­venge [Page 89] the Death of his Cousin Baldwin, which was never to eat Bread on a Table-cloath, never to lye with the dear partner of his Bed, and other things, which, tho they are now at this time slipt out of my memory, I comprize in my Vow, no less than if I had now mention'd 'em, and this I bind my self to, till I have fully reveng'd my self on him, that has done me this injury.

Good your Worship, (cry'd Sancho, amaz'd to hear him take such a horrid Oath) think on what you're doing: for if that same Knight has done as you bid him, and has gone and cast himself before my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I don't see but he and you are quit, and the man deserves no further punishment, unless he does you some new mischief. 'Tis well ob­serv'd, reply'd Don Quixote, and therefore as to the point of Revenge I revoke my Oath; but I renew and confirm it, protesting solemn­ly to lead the life I mention'd, till I have by force of Arms dispoil'd some Knight of as good a Helmet as mine was. Neither do thou fancy, Sancho, that I make this protestation rashly: No, I have a laudable precedent for it, the au­thority of which will sufficiently justifie my Imitation; for the very same thing happen'd about Mambrino's Helmet, which cost Sacri­pante so dear. Good Sir, quoth Sancho, let all such cursing and swearing go to the Devil, there's nothing can be worse for your Souls health, nay, for your bodily health neither. Besides, suppose we shou'd not this good while meet any one with a Helmet on, what a sad case shou'd we then be in? Will your Worship then keep your Oath, in spight of so many hard­ships, [Page 90] such as to lye rough for a month toge­ther, far from any inhabited place, and a thou­sand other idle pennances which that mad old Marquis of Mantua punish'd himself with by his Vow: Do but consider that we may ride I don't know how long upon this Road with­out meeting any arm'd Knight to pick a quar­rel with; for here are none but Carriers and Waggoners, who are so far from wearing any Helmets, that 'tis ten to one whether they ever heard of such a thing in their lives. Thou art mistaken, friend Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote; for we shall not be two hours this way without meeting more Men in Arms than there were at the Siege of Albraca, to conquer the fair Ange­lica. Well then, let it be so, quoth Sancho; and may we have the luck to come off well, and quickly win that Island which costs me so dear, and then I don't matter what befalls me. I have already bid thee not trouble thy self about this business, Sancho, said Don Quixote; for shou'd we miss of an Island, there is either the Kingdom of Denmark or that of Sobradisa, as fit for thy purpose as a Ring to thy finger, and, what ought to be no small comfort to thee, they are both upon the Continent. But we'll talk of this in its proper season: At this time I'd have thee see whether thou hast any thing to eat in thy Wallet, that we may afterwards seek for some Castle where we may lodge this night, and make the Balsam I told thee; for, I pro­test, my Ear smarts extremely. I have here an Onion, reply'd the Squire, a piece of Cheese, and a few stale crusts of Bread; but sure such course fare is not for such a brave Knight as your Worship. Thou art grossly mistaken, [Page 91] friend Sancho, answer'd Don Quixote; know, that 'tis the glory of Knights-Errant to be whole months without eating; and when they do, they fall upon the first thing they meet with, tho it be never so homely; hadst thou but read as many Books as I have done, thou hadst been better inform'd as to that point; for tho I think I have read as many Histories of Chi­valry in my time as any other man, I never cou'd find that the Knights-Errant ever eat, unless it were by meer accident, when they were invited to great Feasts and Royal Ban­quets; at other times they indulg'd themselves with little other food besides their thoughts; and tho it is not to be imagin'd they cou'd live without supplying the exigencies of humane nature, as being after all no more than mortal men; 'tis likewise to be suppos'd that as they spent the greatest part of their lives in Forests and Desarts, and always destitute of a Cook, consequently their usual food was but such course Country fare as thou now offerst me: Never then make thy self uneasie about what pleases me, Friend Sancho; nor pretend to make a new world, nor to unhinge the very Constitution and ancient Customs of Knight-Errantry. I beg your Worships pardon, cry'd Sancho; for, as I was never bred a Scholard, I may chance to have mist in some main point of your Laws of Knighthood; but from this time forwards I'll be sure to stock my Wallet with all manner of dry Fruits for you, because your Worship's a Knight; as for my self, who am none, I'll provide good Fowls, and other substantial Victuals. I don't say, Sancho, re­ply'd Don Quixote, that a Knight-Errant is [Page 92] oblig'd to feed altogether upon Fruit; I only mean, that this was their common food, toge­ther with some Roots and Herbs, which they found up and down the Fields, of all which they had a perfect knowledge, as I my self have. 'Tis a good thing to know those Herbs, cry'd Sancho; for, I am much mistaken, or that kind of knowledge will stand us in good stead e're long. In the mean time, continu'd he, here's what good Heaven has sent us. With that, he pull'd out the provision he had, and they fell to heartily together. But their impa­tience to find out a place where they might be harbour'd that night, made 'em shorten their sorry meal, and mount again, for fe [...] of being benighted. So away they put on, in search of a Lodging. But the Sun and their hopes fail'd 'em at once, as they came to a place where some Goat-herds had set up some small Huts; and therefore they concluded to take up their Lodging there that night. This was as great a mortification to Sancho, who was altogether for a good Town, as it was a pleasure to his Master, who was for sleeping in the open Field, as believing that as often as he did it he con­firm'd his Title to Knighthood, by a new act of possession.

CHAP. III. What past between Don Quixote and the Goat-herds.

THe Knight was very courteously receiv'd by the Goat-herds; and as for Sancho, after he had set up Rozinante and his Ass as well as he cou'd, he presently repair'd to the attractive smell of some pieces of Kids flesh which stood boiling in a Kettle, over the fire. The hungry Squire wou'd immediately have try'd whether they were fit to be remov'd out of the Kettle into his Stomach, but was not put to that trou­ble; for the Goat-herds took 'em off the fire, and having spread some Sheep-skins on the ground, soon got their rural Feast ready, and chearfully invited his Master and him to par­take of what they had. Next, with some course Complements after the Country way, they de­sir'd Don Quixote to sit down on a Trough with the bottom upwards, and then six of 'em, who were all that belong'd to the Fold, squatted 'em down round the Skins; While Sancho stood to wait upon his Master, and give him drink in a Horn Cup, which the Goat-herds us'd. But he, seeing his man stand behind, said to him; That thou mayst understand, Sancho, the Benefits of Knight-Errantry, and how the meanest Retain­ers to it have a fair prospect of being speedily esteem'd and honour'd by the world, tis my plea­sure that thou sit thee down by me, in the com­pany [Page 94] of these good people, that there be no difference now observ'd between thee and me, that thou eat in the same Dish, and drink in the same Cup: For, it may be said of Knight-Errantry as of Love, that it makes all Things equal. I thank your Worship, cry'd Sancho; but yet I must needs own, had I but a good deal of meat before me, I'd eat it as well, or rather better standing, and by my self, than if I sat by an Emperor; and to deal plainly and truly with you, I had rather munch a crust of brown Bread and an Onion in a corner, without any more ado or ceremony, than feed upon Turkey at another Mans Table, where one is fain to sit mincing and chawing his Meat an hour together, drink little, be always wiping his Fingers and his Chops, and never dare to Cough nor Sneeze, tho he has never so much a mind to it, nor do a many things, which a Body may do freely by ones self; therefore, good Sir, change those tokens of your kindness which I have a right to, by being your Worships Squire, into something that may do me more good; as for these same ho­nours I heartily thank you, as much as if I had accepted of 'em, but yet I give up my right to 'em from this time to the world's end. Talk no more, reply'd Don Quixote, but sit thee down, for the humble shall be exalted, and so pulling him by the Arm, he forced him to sit by him.

All this while the Goat-herds, who did not understand this Jargon of Knights-Errant Chi­valry and Squires fed heartily, and said nothing, but star'd upon their Guests, who very fairly swal­low'd whole Luncheons, as big as their Fists, with a mighty appetite. The first Course being over, they brought in the second, consisting of dry'd [Page 95] Acorns, and half a Cheese as hard as a Brick. Nor was the Horn idle all this while, but went merrily round up and down so many times, sometimes full and sometimes empty, like the two Buckets of a Well, that they made shift at last to drink off one of the two Skins of Wine which they had there. And now Don Quixote having satisfy'd his appetite, he took a handful of Acorns, and looking earnestly upon 'em, O happy age, cry'd he, which our first parents call'd the age of Gold; not be­cause Gold, so much ador'd in this Iron Age, was then easily purchas'd; but because those two fatal words Mine and Thine were distin­ctions unknown to the people of those fortu­nate Times. For all Things were in common in that holy age. Men for their sustenance needed only to lift their hands, and take it from the sturdy Oak, whose spreading arms liberally invited 'em to gather the wholsome savoury Fruit; while the clear Springs, and silver Rivulets, with luxuriant plenty offer'd 'em their pure refreshing Water. In hollow Trees, and in the Clefts of Rocks, the labour­ing and industrious Bees erected their little Commonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease the sweet and fertile harvest of their Soils. The tough and strenu­ous Cork-Trees did of themselves, and with­out other art than their native Liberality, dis­miss and impart their broad light Bark, which serv'd to cover those lowly Huts, propt up with rough-hewn Stakes, that were first built as a shelter against the Inclemencies of the air. All then was Union, all Peace, all Love and Friendship in the World. As yet no rude [Page 96] Plough-share presum'd with violence to open and pry into the pious Bowels of our Mother Earth; for she without Compulsion kindly yielded from every part of her fruitful and spacious bosom whatever might at once satisfie, sustain and indulge her frugal Children. Then was the time when innocent beautiful young Shepherdesses went tripping o're the Hills and Vales, their lovely hair, sometimes plaited, sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other vestment but what was necessary to cover de­cently what Modesty wou'd always have con­ceal'd. The Tyrian Dye, and the rich glossy hue of Silk, martyr'd and dissembled into eve­ry colour, which are now esteem'd so fine and magnificent, were unknown to the innocent plainness of that age; yet bedeckt with more becoming Leaves and Flowers, they might be said to outshine the proudest of the vain dres­sing Ladies of our age array'd in the most mag­nificent garbs, and all the most sumptuous adornings, which Idleness and Luxury have taught succeeding Pride. Lovers then exprest the Passion of their Souls in the unaffected Language of the Heart, with the native plainness and sincerity in which they were conceiv'd, and divested of all that artificial Contexture which enervates what it labours to enforce. Imposture, Deceit and Malice had not yet crept in and impos'd them­selves unbrib d upon mankind in the disguise of Truth and Simplicity. Justice, unbyass'd either by Favour or Interest, which now so shamefully pervert it, was equally and im­partially dispenc d: Nor was the Judges Fancy, Law; for then there were neither judges, nor [Page 97] Causes to be judg'd. But in this degenerate age, Fraud, and a Legion of Ills infecting the World, no Virtue can be safe, no Honour be secure, while wanton Desires, diffus'd into the hearts of Men, corrupt the strictest watches, and the closest retreats; which, tho as intricate and unknown as the Labyrinth of Crete, are no security for Chastity. Thus that primitive In­nocence being vanish'd, and Oppression daily prevailing, there was a necessity to oppose the Torrent of Violence. For which reason the order of Knighthood-Errant was instituted, to defend the honour of Virgins, protect Widows, relieve Orphans, and assist all the distress'd in general. Now I my self am one of this Order, honest Friends; and tho all People are oblig'd by the law of Nature, to be kind to Persons of my Order, I ought to pay a particular acknowledg­ment for the good entertainment, which you so generously afford me and my Squire; the rather, as you have done it without being in the least acquainted with my circumstances; and therefore with all the sincerity imaginable, I return you my hearty thanks.

All this long Oration, which might very well have been spared, was owing to the Acorns, that recall'd the Golden age to our Knights re­membrance, and made him thus hold forth to the Goat-herds, who devoutly listen'd, but edi­fy'd little, the Discourse not being suited to their Capacities. Sancho, as well as they, was silent all the while, eating Acorns, and frequently visiting the second Skin of Wine, which for Coolness-sake was hung upon a neighboring Cork-Tree. As for Don Quixote, he was longer and more intent upon his Speech than upon his [Page 98] Supper; when he had done, one of the Goat-herds addressing himself to him, Sir Knight, said he, that you may be sure you're heartily welcom, we'll get one of our Fellows to give us a Song: He is just a coming: A good notable young Lad he is, I'll say that for him, and up to the Ears in Love. He's a Scholard, and can read and write, and plays so rarely upon the Fiddle that 'tis a charm but to hear him. No sooner were the words out of the Goat-herds mouth, but they heard the sound of the Instrument he spoke of, and presently appear'd a good comely young man of about two and twenty years of Age. The Goat-herds ask'd him if he had supp'd? and he having told them he had, Then, dear Antonio, says the first speaker, prethee sing us a Song, to let this Gentleman, our guest, see that we have those amongst us who know somewhat of Musick, for all we live amidst Woods and Mountains. We have told him of thee already, therefore pray thee make our words good, and sing us the Ditty thy Unkle the Prebendary made of thy Love, that was so lik'd in our Town. With all my heart, reply'd Antonio, and so without any further entreaty, sitting down on the stump of an Oak, he tun d his Fiddle, and very handsomly sung the following Song.

[Page 100]Here Antonio ended his Song; Don Quixote intreated him to sing another, but Sancho Panca, who had more mind to sleep, than to hear the finest singing in the World, told his Master, there was enough. Good Sir, quoth he, your Worship had better go and lye down where you are to take your rest this night; besides, these good people are tir'd with their days labour, and rather want to go to sleep than to sit up all night to hear Ballads. I un­derstand thee, Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote, and indeed I thought thy frequent visiting the Bot­tle wou'd make thee fonder of sleep than of Music. Make us thankful, cry'd Sancho! we all lik'd the Wine well enough. I do not deny it, reply'd Don Quixote; but go thou and lay thee down where thou pleasest; as for me it better becomes a man of my profession to wake than to sleep. Yet, stay and dress my Ear be­fore thou goest, for it pains me extremely. Thereupon one of the Goat-herds beholding the Wound, as Sancho offer'd to dress it, desir'd the Knight not to trouble himself, for he had a Remedy that wou'd quickly cure him; and then fetching a few Rosemary leaves, which grew in great plenty thereabouts, he bruis'd 'em, and mix'd a little Salt among 'em, and ha­ving apply'd the Medicine to the Ear, he bound it up, assuring him, he nedeed no other Re­medy; which in a little time prov'd very true.

CHAP. IV. The Story which one of the Goat-herds told to those that were with Don Quix­ote.

A Young Fellow, who used to bring 'em Provision from the next Village, hap­pen'd to come while this was doing, and addressing himself to the Goat-herds, Hark ye, Friends, said he, d'ye hear the News? What news, cry'd one of the Company? That fine Shepherd and Scholar Chrystostome dy'd this morning, answer'd the other; and they say, 'twas for Love of that devilish untoward Lass Marcella, rich William's Daughter, that goes up and down the Country after the way of a Shepherdess. For Marcella, cry'd one of the Goat-herds? I say for her, reply'd the Fellow, and what's more, 'tis reported, he has order'd by his Will, they shou'd bury him in the Fields like any Heathen Moor, just at the Foot of the Rock, hard by the Cork-Tree-Fountain, where they say he had the first sight of her. Nay, he has likewise order'd many other strange things to be done, which the head of the Parish won't allow of, for they seem to be after the way of the Pagans. But Ambrose, the other Scholar, who likewise reparell'd himself like a Shepherd, is resolv'd to have his Friend Chrystostome s Will fulfill'd in every thing, just as he has or­der'd [Page 102] it. All the Village is in an uproar, but after all 'tis thought, Ambrose and his Friends will carry the day; and to morrow morning he is to be buried in great state, where I told you; I fancy 'twill be worth seeing; howso­ever be it what it will, I'll e'en go and see it. Well all go, cry'd the Goat-herds, and cast lots who shall tarry to look after the Goats. Well said, Peter, cry'd one of the Goat herds; but as for casting of Lots, I'll save you that la­bour, for I'll stay my self, not so much out of kindness to you neither, as because of the Thorn in my Toe, that will not let me put on my best Shooes Thank you however, quoth Peter. Don Quixote, who heard all this, en­treated Peter to tell him who the Deceased was, and also to give him a short account of the Shepherdess.

Peter made answer, That all he knew of the matter was, That the Deceased was a wealthy Gentleman, who liv'd not far off, that he had been several years at the University of Sala­manca, and then came home mightily improv'd in his Learning: But above all, quoth he, 'twas said of him that he had great knowledge in the Stars, and whatsoever the Sun and Moon do in the Skies; for he wou'd tell us to a tittle the Clip of the Sun and Moon. We call it an Eclipse, cry'd Don Quixote, and not a Clip, when either of those two great Lumina­ries are darken'd. He wou'd also (continu'd Peter, who did not stand upon such nice di­stinctions) foretel when the year wou'd be plentiful or estil. You wou'd say steril, cry'd Don Quixote, steril or estil, reply'd the fellow, that's all as one to me: But this I say, that his [Page 103] Parents and Friends being rul'd by him grew woundy rich in a short time; for he wou'd tell 'em, This year sow Barley, and no Wheat: In this you may sow Pease, and no Barley: Next year will be a good year for Oyl: The three after that you shan't gather a drop; and whatsoever he said wou'd certainly come to pass. That Science, said Don Quixote, is call'd Astrology. I don't know what you call it, answer'd Peter, but I know he knew all this, and a deal more. But, in short, within some few months after he had left the Versity, on a certain morning we saw him come drest for all the world like a Shepherd, and driving his Flock, having laid down the long Gown, which he us d to wear as a Scholar. At the same time one Ambrose, a great friend of his, who had been his fellow Scholar also, took up­on him to go like a Shepherd, and keep him com­pany, which we all did not a little marvel a [...] I had almost forgot to tell you how he that [...]s dead was a mighty man for making of Verses, insomuch that he commonly made the Caro's which we sung on Christmas-live; and the Plays which the young Lads in our neighbour­hood enacted on Corpus Christi day, and every one wou'd say that no body cou'd mend 'em. Somewhat before that time Chrysostome's Fa­ther died, and left him a deal of Wealth, both in Land, Money, Cattle, and other goods, whereof the [...]oung man remain'd dissolute Master; and in troth he deserv'd it all; for he was as good natur'd a Soul as e're trod on Shoe of Leather, mighty good to the Poor, a main Friend to all honest people, and had a Face like a Blessing. At last it came to be known [Page 104] that the reason of his altering his garb in that fashion, was only that he might go up and down after that Shepherdess Marcella, whom our Comrade told you of before, for he was faln mightily in love with her. And now Ill tell you such a thing you never heard the like in your born days, and mayn't chance to hear of such another while you breath, tho you were to live as long as Sarnah. Say Sarah, cry'd Don Quixote, who hated to hear him blunder thus. The Sarna, or the Scab, (for that's all one with us, quoth Peter) lives long enough too; and if you go on thus, and make me break off my Tale at every word, we an't like to have done this twelvemonth. Pardon me, Friend, reply'd Don Quixote; I only spoke to make thee understand that there's a difference between Sarna and Sarah: How­ever, thou sayst well; for the Sarna (that is, the Scab) lives longer than Sarah; therefore pray make an end of thy story; for I will not interrupt thee any more. Well then, quoth Peter, you must know, good master of mine, that there liv'd near us one William, a Yeoman, who was richer yet than Chrysostome's Father, now he had no Child in the varsal World, but a Daughter, her Mother dy'd in Child-bed of her (rest her Soul) and was as good a Wo­man as ever went upon two Legs. Methinks, I see her yet standing afore me, with that bless'd Face of hers, the Sun on one side, and the Moon on the t'other. She was a main Housewife, and did a deal of good among the Poor; for which I dare say she is at this mi­nute in Paradice. Alas! her death broke old William's heart, he soon went after her, poor [Page 105] man, and left all to his little Daughter, that Marcella by name, giving charge of her to her Unkle, the Parson of our Parish. Well, the Girl grew such a fine Child, and so like her Mother, that it us'd to put us in mind of her every foot. However, 'twas thought she'd make a finer Woman yet, and so it happen'd indeed; for, by that time she was fourteen or fifteen years of age, no man sat his eyes on her, that did not bless Heaven for having made her so handsome; so that most men fell in love with her, and were ready to run mad for her. All this while, her Unkle kept her as charily as the Apple of his Eye, and as close as an Usu­rer's Gold. Yet the report of her great Beauty and Wealth spread far and near, insomuch, that she had I don't know how many Sweet­hearts, almost all the young men in our Town ask'd her of her Unkle; nay, from I don't know how many Leagues about us, there flock'd whole Droves of suiters, and the very best in the Country too, who all begg'd and su'd, and teiz'd her Unkle to let them have her. But tho he'd have been glad to have got fairly rid of her, as soon as she was fit for a Hus­band, yet wou'd not he advise or marry her against her Will; for he's a good Man, Ill say that for him, and a true Christian every inch of him, and scorn'd to keep her from marrying to make a benefit of her Estate; and to his praise be it spoken, he has been mainly com­mended for't more than once, when the peo­ple of our Parish meet together. For I must tell you, Sir Errant, that here in the Country, and in our little Towns, there's not the least thing can be said or done, but people will talk [Page 106] on't; but let busy Bodies prate as they please, my Life for yours, the Parson must have been a good Body indeed, who cou'd bring his Parish to give him a good Word, especially in the Country. Thou'rt in the right, cry'd Don Quixote, and therefore go on, honest Peter, for the Story is pleasant, and thou tell'st it with a Grace. May I never want grace, quoth Pe­ter, and may I be sure to tell our Flocks right, for that's the telling most to the purpose. But for our Parson, as I told you before, he was not for keeping his Niece from marrying, and therefore he took care to let her know of all those that wou d have taken her to Wife, both what they were, and what they had, and he was at her, to have her pitch upon one of 'em for a Husband; yet wou'd she never answer otherwise, but that she had no mind to Wed as yet, as finding herself too young for the bur­then of Wedlock. With these and such like come-offs, she got her Unkle to let her alone, and wait till she thought fit to chuse for her­self. For he was won t to say, that Parents are not to bestow their Children, where they bear no liking, and in that he spoke like an honest Man. And thus it happened, that when we least dreamt of it, that coy Lass, finding her­self at liberty, wou'd needs turn Shepherdess, and neither her Unkle, nor all those of the Village who advis'd her against it, cou'd work any thing upon her, but away she went to the Fields to keep her own Sheep with the other young Lasses of the Town. But then 'twas ten times worse, for no sooner was she seen a­broad, when I can't tell how many spruce Gallants, both Gentlemen and rich Farmers [Page 107] chang'd their garb for love of her, and fol­low'd her up and down in Shepherds guise. One of 'em, as I have told you, was this same Chry­sostome who now lies dead, of whom 'tis said, he not only lov'd, but worshipp'd her. How­soever, I wou [...]d not have you think or surmize, because Marcella took that course of life, and was as it were under no manner of keeping, that she gave the least token of naughtiness or light behaviour, for she ever was, and is still so coy, and so watchful to keep her honour pure and free from evil Tongues, that among so many Wooers who suiter her, there's not one can make his brags of having the least hope of ever speeding with her. For tho she does not shun the Company of Shepherds, but uses 'em courteously, so far as they behave themselves handsomly, yet whensoever any one of 'em does but offer to break his mind to her, be it never so well meant, and only in order to marry, she casts him away from her, as with a Sling, and will never have any more to say to him.

And thus this fair Maiden does more harm in this Country, than the Plague wou'd do; for her courteousness and fair looks draw on every body to love her; but then her dogged, stub­born coyness breaks their Hearts, and makes 'em ready to hang themselves, and all they can do, poor wretches, is to make a heavy complaint, and call her cruel, unkind, ungrateful, and a world of such names, whereby they plainly show what a sad condition they are in: were you but to stay here some time, you'd hear these Hills ring again, with the doleful moans of those she has deny d, who yet can't for the blood of em give over s [...]aking after her. We [Page 108] have a place not far off, where there are some two dozen of Beech-trees, and on 'em all you may find I don't know how many Marcella's cut into the smooth Bark. On some of 'em there's a Crown carv'd over the Name, as much as to say that Marcella bears away the Crown, and deserves the Garland of Beauty. Here sighs one Shepherd, there another whines; here one is singing doleful Ditties, there ano­ther is wringing his hands and making woful complaints. You shall have one lay him down at night at the Foot of a Rock, or by some Oak, and there lye weeping and wailing with­out a wink of sleep, and talking to himself till the Sun finds him there the next morning; you shall have another lye stretch'd upon the hot sandy ground, breathing his sad lamentati­ons to Heaven, without heeding the sultry heat of the Summer-Sun. And all this while the hard-hearted Marcella ne're minds any one of 'em, and does not seem to be the least concern'd for 'em. We are all mightily at a loss to know what will be the end of all this Pride and Coy­ness, who shall be the happy man that shall at last tame her, and bring her to his Lure. Now because there's nothing more certain than all this, I am the more apt to give Credit to what our Comrade has told us, as to the occasion of Chrysostome's Death; and therefore I wou'd needs have you go and see him laid in's Grave to morrow; which I believe will be worth your while, for he had many Friends, and 'tis not half a league to the place where 'twas his Will to be buried. I intend to be there, an­swer'd Don Quixote, and in the mean time I return thee many thanks for the extraordinary [Page 109] satisfaction this story has afforded me. Alas, Sir Knight, reply'd the Goat-herd, I have not told you half the mischiefs this proud Creature has done here, but to morrow mayhap we shall meet some Shepherd by the way that will be able to tell you more. Mean while it won't be amiss for you to take your rest in one of the Huts; for the open air is not good for your wound, tho what I've put to it is so special a Med'cine that there's not much need to fear but 'twill do well enough. Sancho, who was quite out of patience with the Goat-herds long Story, seconded him in his good advice to his Master, and at last prevail'd with him to lye down in Peter's Hut, where Don Quixote, in Imitation of Marcella's Lovers, devoted the remainder of the night to amorous Expostula­tions with his Dear Dulcinea. As for Sancho, he laid himself down between Rozinante and his Ass, and slept it out; not like a disconso­late Lover, but like a man that had been soundly kick'd and bruis'd in the morning.

CHAP. V. A continuation of the Story of Marcella.

SCarce had the rising Day began to dawn in the Eastern quarters of the Sky, when five of the Goat-herds got up, and having wak'd Don Quixote, ask'd him if he held his resolu­tion of going to the Funeral, whither they were ready to bear him company. Thereupon [Page 110] the Knight, who desir'd nothing more, pre­sently arose, and order'd Sancho to get Rozi­nante and the Ass ready immediately; which he did with all expedition, and then they set forwards. They had not yet gone a quarter of a league before they saw advancing towards 'em, out of a cross-path, six Shepherds clad in black Skins, their Heads crown'd with Garlands of Cypress and bitter Coast-mary, with long Holly-Staves in their hands. Two Gentlemen on Horse-back, attended by three Lacqueys on foot, came immediately after 'em: As they drew near, they saluted one another civilly, and after the usual question, Which way dye tra­vel? they found they were all going the same way to see the Funeral, and so they all join'd company. I fancy, Senior Vivaldo, said one of the Gentlemen, addressing himself to the other, we shall not think our time mis-spent in going to see this famous Funeral; for it must of necessity be very extraordinary, according to the account which these men have given us of the dead Shepherd and his Mistress. I am so far of your opinion, answer'd Vivaldo, that I wou d not only stay one day, but a whole week rather than miss the sight. This gave Don Quixote occasion to ask 'em what they had heard concerning Chrysostome and Marcella? One of the Gentlemen made answer, That ha­ving met that morning with those Shepherds, they cou'd not forbear enquiring of 'em, why they wore such a mournful Dress? Whereupon one of 'em acquainted 'em with the sad occasion, by relating the Story of a certain Shepherdess, nam'd Marcella, no less lovely than cruel, whose coyness and disdain has made a world of [Page 111] unfortunate Lovers, and caus'd the death of that Chrysostome, to whose Funeral they were going. In short, he repeated to Don Quixote all that Peter had told him the night before. After this, Vivaldo ask'd the Knight why he travell'd so compleatly arm'd in so peaceable a Country? My profession, answer'd the Cham­pion, does not permit me to ride otherwise. Luxurious Feasts, sumptuous Dresses, and downy Ease, were invented for effeminate Courtiers; but Labour, Vigilance and Arms, are the portion of those whom the world calls Knights-Errant, of which number I have the honour to be one, tho the most unworthy, and the meanest of the Fraternity. He needed to say no more to satisfy 'em his Brains were out of order; however, that they might the better understand the nature of his Folly, Vivaldo ask'd him, what he meant by a Knight-Errant? Have you not read then, cry'd Don Quixote, the Annals and History of Britain, where are recorded the famous deeds of King Arthur, who, according to an ancient Tradition in that Kingdom, never dy'd, but was turn'd into a Crow by Inchantment, and shall one day re­sume his former Shapes, and recover his King­dom again? For which reason since that time, the people of Great Britain dare not offer to kill a Crow. In this good Kings time, the most noble Order of the Knights of the Round Ta­ble was first instituted and then also the Amours between Sir Lancelot Du Lake, and Queen Gui­n v r were really transacted, as that History re­lates, they being manag d and carry'd on by the Mediation of that Honourable Matron the Lady Quintaniana. Which produc'd that Noted Ro­mance so celebrated here in Spain,

And the rest, which gives so delightful an ac­count both of his Loves and feats of Arms. From that time the order of Knight-Errantry begun by degrees to dilate and extend itself in­to most parts of the world. Then did the great Amadis de Gaul signalize himself by Heroick Exploits, and so did his Off-spring to the fifth Generation. The valorous Felixmart of Hir­cania got then immortal Fame, and that un­daunted Knight Tirante the White, who never can be applauded to his worth. Nay, had we but liv'd a little sooner, we might have been blest with the conversation of that invincible Knight of our Modern times, the valorous Don Bellianis of Greece. And this, Gentlemen, is that order of Chivalry, which, unworthy as I am, I profess, with a due observance of the Laws which those brave Knights observ'd before me; and for that reason I chuse to wander thro these solitary Desarts, seeking Adventures, fully resolv'd to expose my person to the most formidable dangers which Fortune can obtrude on me, that by the strength of my arm I may relieve the weak and the distress'd.

After all this stuff, you may be sure the Tra­vellers were sufficiently convinc'd of Don Quix­ote's frenzical folly. Nor were they less supriz'd than were all those who had hitherto discover d so unaccountable a distraction in one who seem'd a rational Creature. However, Vivaldo, who was of a gay disposition, had no sooner made [Page 113] the discovery, but he resolved to make the best advantage of it, that the shortness of the way wou'd allow him.

Therefore, to give him further occasion to divert 'em with his Whimsies, Methinks, Sir Knight-Errant, said he to him, you have ta­ken up one of the strictest and most mortify­ing Professions in the world. I don't think but that a Carthusian Fryar has a better time on't than you have. Perhaps, answer'd Don Quix­ote, the Profession of a Carthusian may be as austere, but I somewhat doubt, whether it may be as beneficial to the world as ours. For, if we must speak the truth, the Souldier who puts his Captains Command in execution, may be said to do as much at least as the Captain who commanded him. The application is easie: For while those Religious men have nothing to do, but with all quietness and security to say their Prayers for the Prosperity of the World, We Knights, like Souldiers, effect what they do but demand, and procure those Benefits to Mankind, by the strength of our Arms, and at the hazard of our Lives, for which they only in­tercede. Nor do we do this shelter'd from the injuries of the Air, but under no other roof but that of the wide Heavens, expos'd to Summers scorching heat, and Winters pinching cold. So that we may justly stile ourselves The Ministers of Heaven, and the Instruments of its Justice upon Earth; and as the business of the War is not to be compast without vast Toyl and La­bour, so the Religious Souldier must undoubted­ly be preferr'd before the Religious Monk, who living still quiet, and at ease, has nothing to do but to pray for the afflicted and distressed. [Page 114] However, Gentlemen, do not imagine I wou'd insinuate as if the Profession of a Knight-Errant were a state of Perfection equal to that of a holy Recluse: I wou d only infer from what I've said, and what I my self endure, that ours is without question more laborious, more sub­ject to the Discipline of heavy Blows, to Mace­ration, to the penance of Hunger and Thirst, and in a word, to Rags, to Want and Misery. For if you find that some Knights-Errant have at last by their Valour been rais'd to Thrones and Em­pires, you may be sure it has been still at the ex­pence of much Sweat and Blood And had even those happier Knights been depriv'd of those as­sisting Sages and Inchanters, who helpt 'em in all Emergencies, they wou'd have been strange­ly disappointed of their mighty Expectations. I am of the same opinion, reply d Vivaldo. But one thing among many others, which I can by no means approve in your Prof [...]ssion, is, that when you are just going to engage in some very hazardous Adventure, where your Lives are evi­dently to be much endanger'd, you never take care to implore the assistance of Heaven, as eve­ry good Christian ought to do on such occasions, but only recommend your selves to your Mi­stresses, and that with as great Zeal and Devotion as if you worshipp'd no other Deities; a thing, which, in my opinion, strongly relishes of Pa­ganism. Sir, reply'd Don Quixote, there's no altering that method; for shou'd a Knight-Er­rant do otherwise, he wou'd too much deviate from the ancient and establish'd Customs of Knight-Errantry; which inviolably oblige him just in the moment when he is rushing on, and giving birth to some dubious Atchievement, to [Page 115] have his Mistress still before his Eyes, still present to his mind by a strong and lively Imagination, and with soft amorous energetick Looks im­plore her Favour and Protection in that uncer­tain Trance. Nay, if no body can overhear him, he's oblig'd to whisper, or speak between his teeth some short Ejaculations, to recommend himself with all the fervency imaginable to the Lady of his Wishes, and of this we have innu­merable Examples in [...]istory. Nor are you for all this to imagine that Knights-Errant omit re­commending themselves to Heaven; for they they have leisure enough to do it, even in the midst of the Combat.

Sir, reply'd Vivaldo, you must give me leave to tell you, I am not yet thoroughly satisfi'd in this point. For I have often observ d in my Reading, that 2 Knights-Errant, having first talkt a little together, have faln out presently, and been so highly provok'd, that, having turn d their Horse-heads to gain room for the Career, they have wheel'd about, and then with all speed run full Tilt at one another, hastily recommending them­selves to their Mistresses in the midst of their Ca­reer; and the next thing has commonly been, that one of 'em has been thrown to the ground over the Crupper of his Horse, fairly whipp d thro and through with his Enemies Lance; and the other forc'd to catch hold of his Horses Mane to keep himself from falling Now I cannot appre­hend how the Knight that was slain had any time to recommend himself to Heaven, when his business was done so suddenly. Me­thinks those hasty Invocations which in his Career were directed to his Mistress, shou'd have been addrest to Heaven, as every [Page 116] good Christian wou'd have done. Besides, I fancy every Knight Errant has not a Mistress to invoke, nor is every one of 'em in Love. Your conjecture is wrong, answer'd Don Quixote; a Knight Errant cannot be without a Mistress, 'tis not more essential to the Skies to have Stars, than 'tis to us to be in Love. Insomuch, that I dare affirm, that no History ever made men­tion of any Knight Errant, that was not a Lover, for were any Knight free from the Im­pulses of that generous Passion, he wou'd not be allow'd to be a lawful Knight; but a mis­born Intruder, and one who was not admitted within the pale of Knight-hood at the Door, but leap d the Fence, and stole in like a Rob­ber and a Thief. Yet, Sir, reply'd the other, I'm much mistaken, or I have read that Don Galaor, the Brother of Amadis, never had any certain Mistress to recommend himself to, and yet for all that, he was not the less esteem'd. One Swallow never makes a Summer, an­swer'd Don Quixote. Besides, I know, that Knight was privately very much in Love; and as for his making his addresses, where-ever he met with Beauty, this was an effect of his natural inclination, which he cou'd not easily restrain. But after all, 'tis an undeniable truth, that he had a favorite Lady, whom he had Crown'd Empress of his Will, and to her he frequently recommended himself in private, for he did not a little value himself upon his discretion and secrecy in Love. Then, Sir, said Vivaldo, since 'tis so much the Being of Knight-Errantry to be in Love, I presume, you, who are of that Profession, cannot be without a Mistress. And therefore, if you do not set up for secrecy as [Page 171] much as Don Galaor did, give me leave to beg of you in the name of all the Company, that you will be pleased so far to oblige us, as to let us know the name and quality of your Mistress, the place of her Birth, and the Charms of her Person. For without doubt, the Lady cannot but esteem herself happy in being known by all the world to be the object of the wishes of a Knight so accomplish'd as your self. With that Don Quixote breathing out a deep sigh, I can­not tell, said he, whether this lovely Enemy of my repose, is the least affected with the world's being inform'd of her power o're my heart; all I dare say, in compliance with your Request, is, that her Name is Dulcinea, her Country La Mancha, and Toboso the happy place which she honors with her Residence. As for her qua­lity, it cannot be less than Princess, seeing she is my Mistress and my Queen. Her Beauty transcends all the United Charms of her whole Sex: ev'n those Chymerical Perfections which the hyperbolical imaginations of Poets in Love have assign'd to their Mistresses, cease to be in­credible Descriptions when apply'd to her, in whom all those Miraculous Endowments are most divinely centred. The Curling Locks of her bright flowing Hair are purest Gold; her smooth Forehead the Elysian Plain; her Brows are two Celestial Bows; her Eyes two Glori­ous Suns; her Cheeks two beds of Roses; her Lips are Coral, and her Teeth are Pearl: her Neck is Alablaster; her Breasts Marble; her Hands Ivory; and Snow wou'd lose its white­ness near her Bosom. Then for the parts which Modesty has veil'd, my imagination, not to wrong 'em, chuses to lose it self in silent ad­miration, [Page 118] for Nature boasts nothing that may give an Idea of their incomparable worth. Pray, Sir, cry'd Vivaldo, oblige us with an account of her Parentage, and the place of her Birth, to compleat the Description. Sir, reply'd Don Quixote, she is not descended from the anci­ent Curtius's, Caius's, nor Scipio's of Rome; nor from the more Modern Colonna's, nor Ʋrsi­ni's; nor from the Moncada's and Requesens's of Catalonia; nor from the Rebilla's, and Villa­nova's of Valencia; nor from the Palafoxes, Nu­cas, Rocaberti's, Coreillas, Lunas, Alagones, Ʋr­reas, Foze's, or Gurrea's of Arragon; nor from the Cerda's, Manriquez, Mendoca's, and Gus­man's of Castile; nor from the Alencastros, Pal­las, and Menezes of Portugal; but she derives her great original from the Family of Toboso in La Mancha, a Race, which, tho it be Modern, is sufficient to give a noble Beginning to the most illustrious Progenies of succeeding Ages. And let no man presume to contradict me in this, unless it be upon those conditions, which Zerbin fixt at the Foot of Orlando's Armour;

I draw my Pedigree from the Cachopines of La­redo, reply'd Vivaldo, yet I dare not make a­ny Comparisons with the Toboso's of La Man­cha, tho, to deal sincerely with you, 'tis a Fa­mily that I never heard of till this moment. 'Tis strange, said Don Quixote, you shou'd ne­ver have heard of it before.

All the rest of the Company gave great atten­tion to this Discourse; and even the very Goat-herds [Page 119] were nowfully convinc'd that Don Quixote's Brains were turn'd topsy turvy. But Sancho Panca believ'd every word that dropt from his Masters mouth to be Truth, as having known him from his Cradle to be a Man of Sincerity. Yet that which somewhat stagger'd his Faith, was this story of Dulcinea of Toboso; for he was sure he had never heard before of any such Princess, nor even of the Name, tho he liv'd hard by Toboso.

As they went on thus discoursing, they saw, upon the hollow Road between the two neigh­bouring Mountains, about twenty Shepherds more, all accoutred in Black Skins, with Gar­lands on their Heads, which; as they afterwards perceiv'd, were all of Ewe and Cyprus. Six of 'em carried a Bier, cover'd with several sorts of Boughs and Flowers: Which one of the Goat-herds espying, These are they, cry'd he, that are carrying poor Chrysostome to his Grave: and twas in yonder Bottom that he gave charge they shou'd bury his Corps. This made 'em all double their pace, that they might get thither in time; and so they arriv'd just as the Bearers had set down the Bier upon the ground, and four of 'em had began to open the ground with their Spades, just at the foot of a Rock. They all sa­luted each other courteously, and condol'd their mutual loss, and then Don Quixote, with those who came with him, went to view the Bier, where they saw the Dead Body of a young man in Shepherds weeds, all strew'd over with Flow­ers. The Deceased seem'd to be about 30 years old, and dead as he was, 'twas easily perceiv'd that both his Face and Shape were extraordinary handsome. W [...]hin the Bier were some few Books, and several Papers, some open, and the [Page 122] rest folded up. This doleful object so strangely fill'd all the Company with sadness, that not on­ly the Beholders, but also the Grave-makers and all the Mourning Shepherds remain'd a long time silent; till at last, one of the Bearers, ad­dressing himself to one of the rest; Look, Am­brose, cry'd he, whether this be the place which Chrysostome meant, since you must needs have his Will so punctually perform'd. This is the very place, answer'd the other: There it was that my unhappy Friend many times told me the sad story of his cruel Fortune; There it was that he first saw that mortal Enemy of Man­kind; There it was that he made the first Dis­covery of his Passion, no less innocent than vio­lent; There it was that the relentless Marcella last deny'd, shunn'd him, and drove him to that extremity of Sorrow and Despair, that hasten'd the sad Catastrophe of his Tragical and Miserable Life; and There it was, that, in token of so many Misfortunes, he desir'd to be com­mitted to the Bowels of eternal Oblivion.

Then, addressing himself to Don Quixote and the rest of the Travellers, This Body, Sirs, said he, which here you now behold, was once en­liven'd by a Soul, which Heaven had enrich'd with the greatest part of its most wealthy Graces. This is the Body of that Chrysostome, who was unrivall'd in Wit, matchless in Courteousness, incomparable in Gracefulness, a Phaenix in Friendship, Generous and Magnificent without Ostentation, Prudent and Grave without Pride, Modest without Affectation, Pleasing and Com­plaisant without Meanness. In a word, the first in every esteemable Qualification, and second to none in Misfortune: He lov'd well, and was [Page 121] hated; he ador'd, and was disdain'd; he begg'd Pity of Cruelty itself; he strove to move ob­durate Marble; pursu'd the Wind; made his moans to solitary Desarts; was constant to In­gratitude, and for the Recompence of his Fide­lity became a prey to Death in the Flower of his Age, thro the barbarity of a Sheperdess whom he strove to immortalize by his Verse, as these Papers which are here deposited might testify, had he not commanded me to sacrifice 'em to the Flames, at the same time that his bo­dy was committed to the Earth.

Shou'd you do so, cry'd Vivaldo, you wou'd appear more cruel to 'em than their exaspera­ted unhappy Parent. Consider, Sir, 'tis not consistent with Discretion, nor even with Justice, so nicely to perform the Request of the Dead, when 'tis repugnant with Reason. Augustus Caesar himself wou'd have forfeited his Title to Wisdom, had he permitted that to have been effected which the Divine Virgil had order'd by his Will. Therefore, Sir, now that you re­sign your Friends Body to the Grave, do not hurry thus the noble and only Remains of that dear unhappy man to a worse Fate, the Death of Oblivion. What, tho he has doom'd 'em to perish, in the height of his Resentment, you ought not indiscreetly to be their Executioner: But rather reprieve and redeem 'em from eter­nal silence; that they may live, and flying thro the World transmit to all ages the dismal story of your Friends Virtue and Marcella s Ingrati­tude; as a warning to others that they may a­void such tempting Snares, and enchanting De­structions. Therefore, in the name of all the company, like me, deeply affected with a sense [Page 122] of Chrysostome's extraordinary merit, and his un­happy fate, and desirous to prevent such deplo­rable disasters for the future, I beg that you will permit me to save some of these Papers, what­ever you resolve to do with the rest. And so, without expecting an answer, he stretch'd out his arm, and took out those Papers which lay next to his hand. Well Sir, said Ambrose, you have found a way to make me submit, and you may keep those Papers; but for the rest, no­thing shall make me alter my Resolution of burning 'em. Vivaldo said no more, but, being impatient to see what those Papers were, which he had rescu'd from the Flames, he open'd one of 'em immediately, and read the Title of it, which was The Despairing Lover. That, said Ambrose, was the first Piece my dear Friend ever wrote; and therefore, that you may all hear to what a sad condition his unhappy Passion had reduc'd him, read it aloud, I beseech you, Sir, while the Grave is making. With all my heart, reply'd Vivaldo. And so the Company, having the same Desire, presently gather'd round about him, and he read the following lines.

CHAP. VI. The unfortunate Shepherd's Verses, and other unexpected matters.

These Verses were well approv'd by all the Com­pany; only Vivaldo observ'd that the Jealousies and Fears of which the Shepherd complain'd, did not very well agree with what he had heard o [...] Marcella's unspotted Modesty and Reservedness. But Ambrose, who had been always privy t [...] the most secret Thoughts of his Friend, inform d him that the unhappy Chysostome wrote those Verses when he had torn himself from his ador'd Mistress, to try whether absence, the com [...] cure of Love, wou'd relieve him, and mitiga [...] his Pain. And as every thing disturbs an ab­sent Lover, and nothing is more usual than for him to torment himself with a thousand Chymera's of his own Brain, so did Chrysostome perplex himself with jealousies and suspicions, which had no ground but in his distracted imagination; and therefore whatever he said in those uneasie Circumstances cou'd never affect, or in the least prejudice Marcella's Virtuous Character, upon whom, setting aside her Cruelty, and her disdainful Haughtiness, Envy itself could never fix the least Reproach. Vivaldo being thus convinc'd, they were going to read another Paper, when they were unexpectedly [Page 126] prevented by a kind of an Apparition, that of­fered it self to their View. 'Twas Marcella herself, who appear'd at the top of the Rock, at the foot of which they were digging the Grave, but so beautiful, that Fame seem'd rather to have lessen'd than to have magnify'd her Charms; those who had never seen her before gaz'd on her with silent wonder and de­light; nay, those who us'd to see her every day seem'd no less lost in admiration than the rest. But scarce had Ambrose spy'd her, when with anger and indignation in his heart, he cry'd out; What mak'st thou there, thou fierce, thou cruel Basilisk of these Mountains? com'st thou to see whether the Wounds of this mur­ther'd Wretch will bleed afresh at thy pre­sence? Or com'st thou thus mounted aloft, to glory in the fatal effects of thy native Inhuma­nity, like another Nero at the sight of Flaming Rome? Or is it to Trample this unfortunate Corps, as Tarquin's ungrateful Daughter did her Fathers? Tell us quickly, why thou com'st, and what thou yet desirest? For since I know, that Chrysostome's whole study was to serve and please thee, while he liv'd, I'm wil­ling to dispose all his Friends to pay thee the like obedience, now he's dead. I come not here to any of those ungrateful ends, Ambrose, re­ply'd Marcella; but only to clear my Inno­cence, and show the injustice of all those, who lay their misfortunes and Chrysostome's Death to my charge. Therefore, I entreat you all, who are here at this time, to hear me a lit­tle, for I shall not need to use many words, to convince People of sense of an evident Truth. Heav'n, you're pleas'd to say, has made me [Page 127] beautiful, and that to such a degree, that you are forc'd, nay, as it were compell'd to love me, in spight of your endeavours to the contrary; and for the sake of that love, you say I ought to love you again. Now tho I am sensible that whatever is beautiful is lovely, I cannot con­ceive, that what is lov'd for being handsom, shou'd be bound to love that by which 'tis lov'd, meerly because 'tis lov'd; he that loves a beau­tiful object may happen to be ugly, and as what is ugly deserves not to be lov'd, it wou'd be ri­diculous to say, I love you because you are handsom, and therefore you must love me again, tho I am ugly. But suppose two per­sons of different Sex are equally handsom, it does not follow, that their desires shou'd be alike and reciprocal; for all Beauties do not kindle Love; some only recreate the sight, and never reach nor captivate the heart. Alas, shou'd whatever is beautiful beget Love and in slave the mind, Mankind's desires wou'd ever run confus'd and wandering, without being able to fix their determinate choice; for as there is an infinite number of beautiful objects, the Desires wou'd consequently be also infinite; whereas, on the contrary, I have heard that true Love is still confin'd to one, and voluntary and unforc'd. This being granted, why wou'd you have me force my Inclinations, for no other reason but that you say you love me? Tell me, I beseech you, had Heaven form'd me as ugly as it has made me beautiful, cou'd I justly com­plain of you for not loving me? Pray consider also that I do not possess those Charms by choice; such as they are, they were freely bestow'd on me by Heaven; and as the Viper is not to be [Page 128] blam'd for the Poyson with which she kills, see­ing 'twas assign'd her by Nature, so I ought not to be censur'd for that Beauty which I derive from the same Cause. For Beauty in a Virtuous Woman is but like a distant Flame, or a sharp­edg'd Sword, and only burns and wounds those who approach too near it. Honour and Virtue are the ornaments of the Soul, and that Body that's destitute of 'em cannot be esteem'd beau­tiful, tho it be naturally so. If then Honour be one of those Endowments which most adorn the Body, why shou'd she that's belov'd for her Beauty, expose herself to the loss of it, meerly to gratifie the loose Desires of one, who for his own selfish ends uses all the means imaginable to make her lose it? I was born free, and that I might continue so, I retir'd to these solitary hills and plains, where Trees are my Compani­ons, and clear Fountains my Looking-glasses. Those whom I have attracted with my sight, I have undeceiv'd with my words. And if hope be the food of desire, I never gave any encou­ragement to Chrysostome, nor to any other; it may well be said, 'twas rather his own obstina­cy than my cruelty that shorten'd his life. If you tell me, that his intentions were honest, and therefore ought to have been complyd with, I answer, that when, at the very place where his Grave is making, he discover'd his Passion, I told him I was resolv'd to live and dye single, and that the Earth alone shou'd reap the spoils of my Reserv'dness and Beauty; and if after all the admonitions I gave him, he wou'd persist in his obstinate pursuit, and sail against the Wind, what wonder is't he shou'd perish in the Waves of his Indiscretion? had I ever encou­rag'd [Page 129] him, or amus'd him with ambiguous words, then I had been false; and had I grati­fy'd his wishes, I had acted contrary to my bet­ter resolves. He persisted, tho I had given him a due caution, and he despair'd e're he was ha­ted. Now I leave you to judge whether I ought to be blam'd for his sufferings? If I have de­ceiv'd any one, let him complain. If I have broke my promise to any one, let him despair. If I encourage any one, let him presume. If I entertain any one, let him boast. But let no man call me cruel nor murtherer, till I either deceive, break my promise, encourage, or en­tertain him. Heaven has not yet been pleas'd to shew whether 'tis its will I shou'd love by destiny; and 'tis vain to think I will ever do it by choice. So let this general caution serve e­very one of those who make their addresses to me for private ends. And if any one hereafter dyes on my account, let not their Jealousy, nor my Scorn or Hate be thought the cause of their death; for she who never pretended to love cannot make any one jealous, and a free and generous Declaration of our fix'd Resolution, ought not to be accounted hate nor disdain. In short, let him that calls me a Tygress and a Basilisk, avoid me as a dangerous Thing; and let him that calls me ungrateful, give over serving me; I assure 'em I will never seek nor pursue 'em. Therefore let none hereafter make it their business to disturb my ease, nor strive to make me ha [...]d among men the quiet I now enjoy, which I am perswaded is not to be found with 'em. I have wealth enough; and the innocent conversation of the neighbouring Shepherdesles, with the care of my Flocks, help [Page 130] me to pass away my time, without either co­quetting with this man, or practising Arts to ensnare that other. My Thoughts are limited by these Mountains; and if they wander fur­ther, 'tis only to admire the Beauty of Heaven, and thus by steps to raise my Soul towards her original dwelling.

As soon as she had said this, without expect­ing any answer, she left the place, and ran into the thickest of the adjoyning Wood, leaving all that heard her charm'd with her Discretion as well as with her Beauty.

However, so prevalent were the Charms of the latter, that some of the Company, who were desperately struck, cou'd not forbear of­fering to follow her, without being the least deterr'd by the solemn Protestations, which they had heard her make that very moment. But Don Quixote perceiving their design, and believing he had now a fit opportunity to exert his Knight-Errantry, Let no man, cry'd he, of what Quality or Condition soever, pre­sume to follow the fair Marcella, under the penalty of incurring my furious indignation. She has made it appear by undeniable Reasons, that she was not guilty of Chrysostome's Death, and has positively declar'd her firm resolution, never to condescend to the desires of any of her Admirers. For which reason, instead of being importun'd and persecuted, she ought to be esteem'd and honour d by all good men; as being perhaps the only Woman in the World, that ever liv'd with such a Virtuous Reserv'd­ness. Now, whether it were, that Don Quix­ote's. Threats terrify'd the amorous Shepherds, or that Ambrose's Persuasion prevail'd with 'em [Page 131] to stay, and see their Friend interr'd, none of the Shepherds left the place, till the Grave be­ing made, and the Papers burnt, the Body was deposited into the Bosom of the Earth, not without many Tears from all the assistants. They cover'd the Grave with a great Stone, till a Monument were made, which Ambrose said he design'd to have set up there, with the following Epitaph upon it.

The Shepherds strew'd the Grave with many Flowers and Boughs, and every one having con­dol'd a while with his Friend Ambrose, they took their leaves of him, and departed. Vivaldo and his Friend did the like; as did also Don Quixote, who was not a person to forgot himself on such occasions. He likewise bid adieu to the kind Goat-herds that had entertain'd him, and to the two Travellers, who desir'd him to go with 'em to Sivill, assuring him, there was no [Page 132] place in the world more fertile in Adventures, every street and every corner there producing some. Don Quixote return'd them thanks for their kind information; but told 'em, he nei­ther wou'd nor ought to go to Sivill, till he had clear'd all those Mountains of the Thieves and Robbers, which he heard very much infested all those parts. Thereupon the Travellers, being unwilling to divert him from so pious a design, took their leaves of him once more, and pursu'd their Journey, sufficiently supply'd with matter to discourse on, from the story of Marcella and Chrysostome, and Don Quixote's follies. As for him, he resolv'd to find out the Shepherdess Marcella, if possible, to offer her his service to protect her to the utmost of his power. But he happen'd to be crost in his designs, as you shall hear in the sequel of this true History. For here ends the second Book.

CHAP. I. Giving an account of Don Quixote's un­fortunate Rencounter with certain Yan­guesian Carriers.

THe Sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, that when Don Quixote had taken his leave of all those that were at Chrysostome's Fu­neral, [Page 134] he and his Squire went after Marcella in­to the Wood; and having rang'd it above two hours, without being able to find her, they came at last to a Meadow, whose springing Green, water'd with a delightful and refreshing Rivu­let, invited, or rather pleasingly forc'd em to alight, and give way to the heat of the day, which began to be very violent. So leaving the Ass and Rozinante to graze at large, they ransackt the Wallet, and without Ceremony the Master and the Man fell to, and fed lovingly on what they found. Now Sancho had not taken care to tye up Rozinante, knowing him to be a Horse of that Sobriety and Chastity, that all the Mares in the Pastures of Cordona cou'd not have rais'd him to attempt an indecent thing. But either Fortune, or the Devil, who seldom sleeps, so order'd it, that a good number of Galician Mares, belonging to some Yanguesian Carriers, were then feeding in the same Valley, it being the custom of those Men about the hottest time of the day to stop where-ever they meet with Grass and Water to refresh their Horses. Nor cou'd they have found a fitter place than that where Don Quixote was. Rozinante, as I said before, was chaste and modest, however he was flesh and blood; so that assoon as he had smelt the Mares, forsaking his natural Gravity and Reserv'dness, without asking his Masters leave, away he trots it briskly to make 'em sensible of his little necessities: But they, who, it seems, had more mind to feed than to be merry, receiv'd their Gallant so rudely with their heels and teeth, that in a trice they broke his Girts, and threw down his Saddle, and left him disrob'd of [Page]

[Page] [Page 135] all his Equipage. And for an addition to his Misery, the Carriers, perceiving the violence that was offer'd to their Mares, flew to their re­lief with Poles and Pack-staves, and so bela­bour'd poor Rozinante, that he soon sunk to the ground, under the weight of their unmerciful Blows.

Don Quixote and Sancho, perceiving at a di­stance the ill usage of Rozinante, ran with all speed to his Rescue; and as they came near the place, panting, and almost out of breath, Friend Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote, I perceive these are no Knights, but only a pack of Scoundrels, and Fellows of the lowest Rank, I say it, because thus thou mayst lawfully help me, to revenge the Injury they have done Rozinante before our faces. What a Devil d'ye talk of Revenge, quoth Sancho? We are like to revenge our selves finely! You see they are above twenty, and we are but two, nay, perhaps but one and a half. I alone am worth a hundred, reply'd Don Quixote; then without any more words, he drew his Sword, and flew upon the Yanguesians. Sancho, encourag'd by his Masters example, did the like, and with the first blow, which Don Quixote gave one of 'em, he cut thro his Lea­thern Doublet, and gave him a deep slash in the Shoulder. The Yanguesians, seeing them­selves thus rudely handled, betook themselves to their Leavers and Pack-Staves, and then all at once surrounding the valiant Knight and his trusty Squire, they charg'd 'em, and laid on with great fury. At the second round down they settle poor Sancho, and then Don Quixote himself, who, as Chance wou'd have it, fell at the [Page 136] feet of Rozinante, who had not yet recover'd his Legs; neither cou'd the Knights Courage nor his Skill avail against the fury of a number of rustical fellows, arm'd with Pack-staves. The Yanguesians, fearing the ill consequences of the mischief they had done, made all the haste they cou'd to be gone, leaving our two Adventurers in a woful condition. The first that came to himself was Sancho Panca, who finding himself near his Master, call'd to him thus, with a weak and doleful voice, Ah Master! Master! Sir, Sir Knight! What's the matter, Friend Sancho, ask'd the Knight, in the same feeble and la­menting tone? I cou'd wish, reply'd Sancho, that your Worship wou'd help me to two good Draughts of the Liquor you talk on, if you have any by you, perhaps 'tis as good to cure broken Bones, as 'tis to heal outward wounds. Oh! that I had some of it here now, cry'd Don Quixote, we cou'd not then be said to want any thing: But I swear to thee, honest Sancho, by the Faith of a Knight-Errant, within these two days (if no other Disaster prevent me) I will have some at my disposal, or it shall hardly escape my hands. Two Days, Sir, reply'd Sancho! Why, pray how many Days do you think 'twill be before we are able to stir our Feet? As for my self, an­swer'd the bruis'd Don Quixote, I must own I I cannot set a certain term to the days of our Recovery; but 'tis I, who am the fatal cause of all this mischief, for I ought not to have drawn my Sword against a Company of Fel­lows, upon whom the honour of Knighthood was never conferr'd, and I do not doubt but that Providence suffer'd this Punishment to be­fall [Page 137] me, for transgressing thus the Laws of Chi­valry: therefore, Friend Sancho, observe what I am going to tell thee, for it is a thing that highly concerns the welfare of us both, 'tis, that for the future whenever thou perceiv'st us to be any ways abus'd by such inferiour fellows, thou art not to expect I shou'd offer to draw my Sword against them; for I will not do it in the least: No, do thou then draw, and chastise 'em as thou thinkst fit: But if any Knights come to take their parts, then will I be sure to step be­tween thee and Danger, and assault em with the utmost Vigour and Intrepidity. Thou hast already had a thousand Proofs of the greatness of my Valour, and the prevail­ing strength of my most dreadful Arm: (So arrogant the Knight was grown, since his Victo­ry over the bold Biscayan.) But Sancho was not so well pleas'd with his Masters admoniti­ons, but that he thought fit to answer him: Sir, says he, I am a peaceful man, a harmless quiet fellow, d'ye see: I can make shift to pass by an Injury as well as any man, as having a Wife to maintain, and Children to bring up; and therefore pray take this from me, by the way of Advice, (for I'll not offer to command my Master) that I will not in any wise draw my Sword, neither against Knight nor Clown, not I. I freely forgive all mankind, High and Low, Rich and Poor, Lords and Beggars, whatever wrongs they ever did, or may do me, without the least exception. Sancho, (said his Master, hearing this) I heartily wish I had Breath e­nough to answer thee effectually, or that the pain which I feel in one of my short Ribs wou'd leave [Page 138] me but for so long as might serve to convince thee of thy error. Come, suppose, thou silly wretch, that the gale of Fortune, which has hitherto been so contrary to us, shou'd at last turn favourable, swelling the Sails of our Desires, so that we might with as much securi­ty as ease, arrive at some of those Islands which I have promis'd thee: What wou'd become of thee, if, after I had conquer'd one of 'em, I were to make thee Lord of it? Thou wou'dst certainly be found not duly qualifi'd for that Dignity, as having abjur'd all Knighthood, all thoughts of Honour, and all Intention to re­venge Injuries, and defend thy own Domini­ons. For thou must understand, that to King­doms and Provinces newly conquer'd, the hearts and minds of the Inhabitants are ne­ver so thoroughly subdu'd or wedded to the Interests of their new Soveraign, but that there is reason to fear, they will endeavour to raise some Commotions to change the face of affairs, and, as men say, once more try their Fortune. Therefore tis necessary that the new Possessor have not only Understanding to govern, but al­so Valour to attack his Enemies, and defend himself on all occasions. I wou'd I had had that Understanding and Valour you talk of, quoth Sancho; but now, Sir, I must be free to tell you, I have more need of a Surgeon, than of a Preacher. Pray try whether you can rise, and we'll help Rozinante, tho he does not de­serve it, for he's the chief cause of all this Beat­ing. For my part, I cou'd never have believ'd the like of him before, for I always took him for as sober and peaceable a person as my self. [Page 139] In short, 'tis a true saying, that a man must eat a peck of Salt with his Friend, before he knows him; and I find There's nothing sure in this World. For, who wou'd have thought, after the dread­ful slashes you gave to that Knight-Errant, such a terrible Tempest of Bastinadoes wou'd so soon have showr'd upon our Shoulders? As for thine, reply'd Don Quixote, I doubt they are us'd to endure such sort of showers; but mine, that were nurst in soft Linnen, will most certainly be longer sensible of this Misfortune; and were it not that I imagine (bu [...] why do I say imagine!) were it not that I am positively sure that all these Inconveniencies are insepara­ble from the Profession of Onivalry, I wou'd abandon my self to grief, and die of meer De­spair on this very spot. I beseech you, Sir, quoth Sancho, since these Rubs are sometimes the Vails of your Trade of Knighthood, tell me whether they use to be very brief among you, or whether we may look for 'em at set times; for, I fancy, if we meet but with two such Harvests m [...]re, we shall never be able to reap the third, unless Miracles assist us? Know, Friend Sancho, return'd Don Quixote, that the Life of Knights-Errant is subject to a thousand Hazards and Misfortunes: But, on the other side, they may at any time suddenly become Kings and Emperors, as experience has demonstrated in many Knights, of whose Histories I have a perfect Knowledge. And I cou'd tell thee now (wou'd my pain suffer me) of some of 'em who have rais'd themselves to those high Dignities only by the strength of their Arms; and those very Knights, both before and after their ad­vancement, [Page 140] were involv'd in many Calamities. For the valorous Amadis de Gaul saw himself in the Power of his mortal Enemy Arcalaus the Inchanter, of whom 'tis credibly reported that when he held him Prisoner he gave him above two hundred stripes with his Horse Bridle, after he had ty'd him to a Pillar in the Court­yard of his house. There is also a secret Author of no little credit, relates, That the Knight of the Sun being taken in a Trap in a certain Castle was hurri'd to a deep Dungeon, where, after they had bound him Hand and Foot, they for­cibly gave him a Glyster of Snow-water and Sand, which wou'd probably have cost him his Life, had he not been assisted in that Distress by a wise Magician his particular Friend. Thus I may well bear my misfortune patiently, since those which so many greater persons have en­dur'd may be said to out do it. For I wou'd have thee to know, that those wounds which are given with the Instruments and Tools which a Man happens to have in his hand do not really disgrace the Person struck. We read it express­ly in the Laws of Duels, That if a Shoemaker strikes another Man with his Last which he held in his hand, tho it be of Wood as a Cudgel is, yet the party who was struck with it shall not be said to have been cudgell d. I tell thee this, that thou mayst not think we are in the least dishonored, tho we have been horribly beaten in this Rencoun­ter; for the weapons, which those men us'd, were but the Instruments of their profession, and not one of 'em, as I very well remember, had either Tuck, or Sword, or Dagger. They gave me no leisure, quoth Sancho, to examine [Page 141] things so narrowly; for I had no sooner laid my hand on my Weapon, but they crost my Shoulders with such a Wooden Blessing, as set­tled me on the ground without sence or moti­on, where you see me lie; and where I don't trouble my head whether it be a Disgrace to be mawl'd with Cudgels or with Pack-staves: Let 'em be what they will, I am only vext to feel them so heavy on my Shoulders, where I am afraid they are imprinted as deep, as they are in my Mind. For all this, re­ply'd Don Quixote, I must inform thee, Friend Sancho, that there is no Remem­brance, which time will not deface, nor no Pain, to which Death will not put a Period. Thank you for nothing, quoth Sancho! What worse can befall us, than to have only Death to trust to? Were our affliction to be cur'd with a Plaister or two, a man might have some Patience; but, for ought I see, all the Salves in an Hospital won't set us on our best Legs again Come, no more of this, cry'd Don Quixote; take Courage, and make a Vir­tue of necessity; for 'tis what I am resolv'd to do. Let's see how it fares with Rozi­nante; for, if am not mistaken, the poor Creature has not been the least suflerer in this Adventure. No wonder at that, quoth Sancho; seeing he's a Knight-Errant as well as [...] rest; I rather wonder, how my Ass ha [...] [...]cap'd so well, while we have far'd so ill [...] our Disasters, return'd Don Quix­ot [...] Fortune leaves always some door open to [...]me at a Remedy. I say it, Sancho, be­cause [Page 142] that little Beast may now supply the want of Rozinante, to carry me to some Castle, where I may get cur'd of my Wounds. Nor do I esteem this kind of riding dishonourable, for I remember, that the good old Silenus, Tutor and Go­vernor to the Jovial God of Wine, rode very fairly on a goodly Ass, when he made his Entry into the City with a hundred Gates. Ay, quoth Sancho, 'twill do well enough, cou'd you ride as fairly on your Ass, as he did on his, but there's a deal of dif­ference between Riding and being laid cross the Pannel like a pack of Rubb [...]. The Wounds which are receiv'd i [...] Combat, said Don Quixote, rather add to our honour, than deprive us of it; therefore, good San­cho, trouble me with no more replies, but, as I said, endeavour to get up, and lay me as thou pleasest upon thy Ass, that we may leave this place e're night steal up­on us. But, Sir, cry'd Sancho, I have heard you say, that 'tis a common thing a­mong you Knight-Errants to sleep in Fields and Desarts the best part of the year, and that you look upon it to be a very happy kind of Life. That is to say, reply'd Don Quixote, when we can do no better, or when we are in Love; and this is so true, that there have been Knights who have dwelt on Rocks, expos'd to the Sun, and other Inclemencies of the Sk, for the space of two Years, without their Lady's Knowledge: One of those was Amadis, when, assuming the Name of The Lovely Obscure, he inhabited [Page 143] the Poor Rock, either eight years, or eight months, I can't now punctually tell which of the two; for I don't thoroughly remem­ber that passage. Let it suffice that there he dwelt, doing Penance, for I don't know what unkindness his Lady Oriana had shew'd him. But setting these Discourses aside, pre­thee dispatch, lest some Mischief befall thy Ass, as it has done Rozinante. That wou'd be the Devil indeed, reply'd Sancho, and so breathing out some thirty Lamentations, threescore Sighs, and a hundred and twen­ty Plagues and Poxes on those that had de­coy d him thither, he at last got upon his Legs, yet not so but that he went stoop­ing, with his Body bent like a Turks Bow, not being able to stand upright. Yet in this crooked Posture he made a shift to har­ness his Ass, who had not forgot to take his share of Licentiousness that day. After this, he help'd up Rozinante, who, cou'd his Tongue have exprest his Sorrows, wou'd certainly not have been behindhand with San­cho and his Master. After many bitter Oh's, and Screw'd Faces, Sancho laid Don Quixote on the Ass, ty'd Rozinante to its Tail, and then leading the Ass by the Halter, he took the nearest way that he cou'd guess to the high Road; to which he luckily came be­fore he had travell'd a short League, and then he discover'd an Inn; which, in spight of all he cou'd say, Don Quixote was pleas'd to mistake for a Castle. Sancho swore bloodi­ly 'twas an Inn, and his Master was as po­sitive of the contrary. In short, their Dis­pute [Page 144] lasted so long, that before they cou'd decide it they reach'd the Inn-door, where Sancho strait went in, with all his Train, without troubling himself any further about the matter.

CHAP. II. What happen'd to Don Quixote in the Inn which he took for a Castle.

THe Inn-keeper, seeing Don Quixote lying quite athwart the Ass, ask'd Sancho, what ail'd him? Sancho answer'd, 'Twas nothing, only his Master had got a fall from the Top of a Rock to the Bottom, and had bruis'd his Sides a little. The Inn-keeper had a Wife, very different from the common sort of Hostesses, for she was of a Charitable Nature, and very compassionate of her Neighbour's Afflictions; which made her immediately take Care of Don Quixote, and call her Daughter, (a good hand­some Girl,) to set her helping hand to his Cure. One of the Servants in the Inn was an Asturian Wench, a Broad-fac'd, Flat-headed, Sadle-noss'd, Dowdy; blind of one Eye, and t'other almost out: However, the Activity of her Body sup­ply'd all other Defects. She was not above three Foot high from her Heels to her Head; and her Shoulders, which somewhat loaded her, made her look downwards oftner than she cou'd have wish'd. This charming Original like­wise assisted the Mistress and the Daughter; and with the latter, help'd to make the Knight's Bed, and a sorry one it was; the Room where it stood was an old gambling Cock-loft, which by manifold Signs seem'd to have been in the days [Page 126] of Yore, a Repository for chopt Straw. Some what further, in a Corner of that Garret, a Carrier had his Lodging; and tho' his Bed was no­thing but the Pannels and Coverings of his Mules, 'twas much better than that of Don Quixote, which only consisted of four rough hewn Boards laid upon two uneven Tressels, a Flock-bed, that, for Substance, might well have pass'd for a Quilt, and was full of Knobs and Bunches, which had they not peep'd out thro' many a hole, and shewn themselves to be of Wool, might well have been taken for Stones: The rest of that extraordinary Bed's Furniture, was a pair of Sheets, which rather seem'd to be of Leather than of Linnen Cloath, and a Cover­let whose every individual Thread you might have told, and never have miss'd one in the Tale.

In this ungracious Bed was the Knight laid to rest his belabour'd Carcass, and presently the Ho­stess and her Daughter anointed and plaister'd him all over, while Maritornes (for this was the Name of the Asturian Wench) held the Candle. The Hostess, while she greas'd him, wonder­ing to see him so bruis'd all over; I fancy, said she, those Bumps look much more like a dry Beating than a Fall. 'Twas no dry Beating Mi­stress, I promise you, quoth Sancho, but the Rock had I know not how many cragged Ends and Knobs, whereof e'ry one gave my Master a Token of its Kindness. And by the way, for­sooth, continu'd he, I beseech you save a little of that same Tow and Ointment for me too, for I don't know what's the matter with my Back, but I fancy I stand mainly in want of a little greas­ing too. What, I suppose, you fell too, quoth [Page]

[Page] [Page 127] the Landlady. Not I, quoth Sancho, but the very Fright that I took to see my Master tumble down the Rock, has so wrought upon my Body, that I'm as sore as if I had been sadly maul'd. It may well be as you say, cry'd the Inn-keeper's Daughter; for I have dream'd several Times that I have been falling from the Top of a high Tower without ever coming to the Ground; and, when I wak'd, I have found my self as out of order and as bruis'd as if I had fall'n in good earnest. That's e'en my Case, Mistress, quoth Sancho; only ill Luck wou'd have it so, that I shou'd find my self e'en almost as batter'd and bruis'd as my Lord Don Quixote, and yet all the while be as broad awake as I am now. How do you call this same Gentleman, quoth Marifornes? He's Don Quixote de la Mancha, reply'd Sancho; and he is a Knight-Errant, and one of the primest and stoutest that ever the Sun shin'd on. A Knight-Errant, cry'd the Wench, pray what's that? Heigh-day, cry'd Sancho, does the Wench know no more of the World than that comes to? Why, a Knight-Errant is a Thing which in two Words you see well Cudgell'd, and then an Emperour. To day there's not a more wretched Thing upon the Earth, and yet to morrow he'll have you two or three Kingdoms to give away to his Squire. How comes it to pass then, quoth the Landlady, that thou who art this great Per­son's Squire, ha'st not yet got thee at least an Earldom? Fair and softly goes far, reply'd San­cho. Why, we have not been a Month in our Gears, so that we have not yet encounter'd any Adventure worth the naming: Besides, ma­ny a time we look for one thing, and light on another, But if my Lord Don Quixote happen [...] [Page 148] but to get well again, and I scape remaining a Cripple, I'll not take the best Title in the Land for what I am sure will fall to my Share.

Here Don Quixote, who had listen'd with great Attention to all these Discourses, rais'd him­self up in his Bed with much ado, and taking the Hostess, in a most obliging manner by the hand, Believe me, said he, beautiful Lady, you may well esteem it a Happiness, that you have now the opportunity to entertain my Person in your Castle. Self-praise is unworthy a Man of Honour, and therefore I shall say no more of my self; but my Squire will inform you who I am. Only thus much let me add, That I will eter­nally preserve your Kindness in the Treasury of my Remembrance, and study all Occasions to testifie my Gratitude. And I wish, continu'd he, the Powers above had so dispos'd my Fate, that I were not already Love's devoted Slave, and captivated by the Charms of the disdainful Beau­ty, who engrosses all my softer Thoughts; for then wou'd I be proud to Sacrifice my Liberty to this beautiful Damsel. The Hostess, her Daughter, and the kind-hearted Maritornes, star'd on one another, quite at a loss for the meaning of this high flown Language, which they under­stood full as well as if it had been Greek. Yet conceiving these were Words of Complement and Courtship, they look'd upon him and admir'd him as a Man of another World. And so, ha­ving made him such Returns, as Inn-keeper's Breeding cou'd afford, they left him to his Rest. Only Maritornes stay'd to rub down Sancho, who wanted her help no less than his Ma­ster.

[Page 149]Now you must know that the Carrier and she had agreed to pass the Night together; and she had given him her Word, that as soon as all the People in the Inn were in Bed, she wou'd be sure to come to him, and be at his Service. And 'tis said of this good natur'd Thing that whenever she had pass'd her Word in such Cases, she was sure to make it good, tho' she had made the Promise in the midst of a Wood and without any Wit­ness at all. For she stood much upon her Genti­lity, tho' she undervalu'd her self so far as to serve in an Inn, often saying that nothing but Crosses and Necessity cou'd have made her stoop to it.

Don Quixote's hard, scanty, beggarly, misera­ble Bed was the first of the four in that wretched Apartment; next to that was Sancho's Kennel, which consisted of nothing but a Bed-Mat and a Coverlet, that rather seem'd shorn Canvass than a Rug. Beyond those two Beds was that of the Carrier made, as we have said, of the Pannels and Furniture of two of the best of twelve Mules which he kept, every one of 'em goodly Beasts and in special good Case; for he was one of the richest Muleteers of Arevalo, as the Moorish Author of this History relates, who makes par­ticular mention of him, as having been acquainted with him, nay, some don't stick to say he was somewhat a-kin to him. However it be, it ap­pears that Cid Mahamet Benengeli was a very exact Historian, since he takes care to give us an Account of Things that seem so inconsiderable and trivial. A Laudable Example which those Historians should follow who usually relate Mat­ters so concisely, that they seem scarce to have dipp'd in 'em, and rather to have left the most es­sential Part of the Story drown'd in the bottom [Page 130] of the Inkhorn, either through Neglect, Malice, or Ignorance. A thousand Blessings then be given to the curious Author of Tablante de Rico­monte, and to that other indefatigable Sage that recorded the Atchievements of Count Tomillas; for they have describ'd even the most minute and trifling Circumstances with a singular precise­ness. But, to return to our Story, you must know that after the Carrier had drest his Mules and given 'em their Night's Provender, he laid him down on his hard Bed, expecting the most punctual Maritornes's kind Visit. By this Time, Sancho, duly greas'd and anointed, was crept into his S [...]y, where he did all he could to sleep, but his aking Ribs did all they could to prevent him. As for the Knight, whose Sides were in as bad Circumstances as his Squire's, he lay with both his Eyes open like a Hare. And now was every Soul in the Inn gone to Bed, not so much as a Mouse stirring in the House, nor any Light to be seen, except that of a Lamp which hung in the middle of the Gate-way. This general Tranqui­lity setting Don Quixote's Thoughts at work, offer'd to his Imagination one of the most absurd Follies that ever crept into a distemper'd Brain from the Perusal of Romantic Whimsies. Now he fancied himself to be in a famous Castle (for, as we have already said, all the Inns which were honour'd with his Presence, seem'd no less than Castles to him) and that the Inn-keeper's Daugh­ter (consequently Daughter to the Lord of the Castle) strangely captivated with his graceful Pre­sence and Gallantry, had promis'd him the Plea­sure of her Embraces, as soon as her Father and Mother were gone to Rest. This Chimera di­sturb'd him, as if it had been a real Truth. [Page 131] So that he began to be mightily perplext, re­flecting on the Danger to which his Honour was expos'd. But at last his Vertue over-came the powerful Temptation, and he firmly resolv'd not to be guilty of the least Infidelity to his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; tho' Queen Genever her self, with her trusty Matron Quintaniona should joyn to decoy him into the alluring Snare.

While these wild Imaginations work'd in his Brain, the gentle Maritornes was mindful of her Assignation, and with soft and wary Steps, bare­foot and in her Smock, stole into the Room, and felt about for her belov'd Carrier's Bed. But scarce had she got to the Door, when Don Quix­ote, whose Ears were on the scout, was sensible that something was coming in; and therefore having rais'd himself in his Bed, sore and wrapt up in Plaisters, as he was, he stretch'd out his Arms to receive his fancy'd Damsel, and caught hold of Maritornes by the Wrist, as she was, with her Arms stretch'd, groping her way to her Paramour; he pull'd her to him, and made her sit down by his Bed's-side, she not daring to speak a Word all the while: Now, as he ima­gin'd her to be the Lord of the Castle's Daugh­ter, her Smock, which was of the courcest Can­vase, seem'd to him of the finest Holland; and the Glass Beads about her Wrist, precious Ori­ental Pearls; her Hair that was almost as rough as a Horse's Main, he took to be soft flowing Threads of bright curling Gold; and her Breath, that had a stronger Hogo than stale Venison, was to him a grateful Compound of the most fragrant Perfumes of Arabia. In short, his flattering Ima­gination transform'd her into the likeness of those [Page 152] Romantic Beauties, one of whom, as he remem­ber'd to have read, came to pay a private Visit to a wounded Knight, with whom she was des­perately in Love; and the poor Gentleman's ob­stinate Folly had so insatuated his outward Sense, that his Feeling and his Smell cou'd not in the least undeceive him; and he thought he had no less than a balmy Venus in his Arms, while he hugg'd a fulsome Bundle of Deformities that wou'd have turn'd any Man's Stomach but a sharp-set Carrier's. Therefore, clasping her still closer, with a soft and amorous Whisper, Oh! thou most lovely Temptation, cry'd he, Oh that I now might but pay a warm Acknowledgment for the mighty Blessing which your extravagant Goodness wou'd lavish on me; yes, most beau­tiful Charmer, I wou'd give an Empire to pur­chase your more desirable Embraces; but For­tune, Madam, Fortune, that Tyrant of my Life, that unrelenting Enemy to the truly Deserving has maliciously hurry'd and rivetted me to this Bed, where I lie so bruis'd and macerated, that, tho' I were eager to gratifie your Desires, I should at this dear unhappy Minute be doom'd to Impotence: Nay, to that unlucky Bar, Fate has added a yet more invincible Obstacle. I mean my plighted Faith to the unrivall'd Dulcinea del Toboso, the sole Mistress of my Wishes, and ab­solute Sovereign of my Heart, Oh! did not this oppose my present Happiness, I cou'd never be so dull and insensible a Knight as to lose the Be­nefit of this extraordinary Favour which you have now condescended to offer me.

Poor Maritornes all this while sweated for Fear and Anxiety, to find her self thus lock'd in the Knight's Arms; and without either understand­ing [Page 153] or willing to understand his florid Excuses, she did what she cou'd to get from him, and sheer off, without speaking a word. On the other side, the Carrier, whose lewd Though [...]s kept him awake, having heard his trusty Lady when she first came in, and listen'd ever since to the Knight's Discourse, began to be affraid that she had made some other Assignation; and so without any more ado, he crept softly to Don Quixote's Bed, where he listen'd a while to hear what wou'd be the end of all this Talk, which he cou'd not understand: But perceiving at last, by the struggling of his faithful Maritornes, that 'twas none of her Fault, and that the Knight strove to detain her against her Will, he cou'd by no means bear his Familiarity; and therefore taking it in mighty Dudgeon, he up with his Fist, and hit the disastrous Knight such a swinging blow on the Jaws, that his Face was all over Blood in a moment. And not satisfied with this, he got o' top of the Knight, and with his splay Feet betrampled him as if he had been treading a Hay-mow. With that the Bed, whose Foundations were none of the best, sunk under the additional Load of the Carrier, and fell with such a noise that it wak'd the Inn-keeper, who presently suspects it to be one of Maritornes's nightly Skirmishes; and therefore having call'd her aloud, and finding that she did not answer, he lighted a Lamp and made to the Place where he heard the Bustle. The Wench, who heard him coming, knowing him to be of a passionate Nature, was scar'd out of her Wits, and fled for shelter to Sancho's Stye, where he lay snoring to some Tune: There she pig'd in, and slunk un­der the Coverlet, where she lay snug, and truss'd [Page 134] up as round as an Egg. Presently her Master came in, in a mighty heat. Where's this damn'd Whore, cry'd he: I dare say this is one of her Pranks. By this, Sancho awak'd; and feeling that unusual Lump, which almost over-laid him, he took it to be the Night-Mare, and began to lay about him with his Fists, and thump'd the Wench so unmercifully, that at last Flesh and Blood were no longer able to bear it; and for­getting the Danger she was in, and her dearer Reputation, she paid him back his Thumps as fast as her Fists cou'd lay 'em on, and soon rous'd the drowsie Squire out of his Sluggishness, whether he wou'd or no. Who finding himself thus pammell'd, by he did not know who, he busled up in his Nest, and catching hold of Ma­ritornes, they began the most pleasant Skirmish in the World. When the Carrier perceiving by the Light of the Inn-keeper's Lamp, the dismal Con­dition that his dear Mistress was in, presently took her part; and, leaving the Knight whom he had more than sufficiently maul'd, flew at the Squire, and paid him confoundedly. On the other hand, the Inn-keeper, who took the Wench to be the cause of all this hurly burly, cuff'd and kick'd, and kick'd and cuff'd her over and over again: And so there was a strange Mul­tiplication of Fisticuffs and Drubbing. The Carrier pummell'd Sancho, Sancho maul'd the Wench, the Wench belabour'd the Squire, and the Inn-keeper thrash'd her again: And all of 'em laid on with such Expedition, that you wou'd have thought they had been affraid of losing Time. But the best Jest was, that in the heat of the Fray, the Lamp went out; so that being now in the dark, they ply'd one another [Page 135] at a Venture, they struck and tore, all went to Rack, while Nails and Fists flew about without Mercy.

There happen'd to lodge that Night in the Inn one of the Officers belonging to that Society which they call the old holy Brotherhood of To­ledo, whose chief Office is to look after Thieves and Robbers. Being wak'd with the heavy Bu­stle, he presently jump'd out of his Bed, and with his short Staff in one hand, and a Tin Box with his Commission in't in the other, he grop'd out his way; and being enter'd the Room in the dark, cry'd out, I charge ye all to keep the Peace: I am an Officer of the holy Brother­hood. The first he pop'd his hand upon hap­pen'd to be the poor batter'd Knight who lay upon his Back, at his full length, without any Feeling, upon the Ruins of his Bed. The Of­ficer, having caught him by the Beard, presently cry'd out, I charge you to aid and assist me: But finding he cou'd not stir, tho' he grip'd him hard, he presently imagin'd him to be dead, and murther'd by the rest in the Room. With that, he bauld out, to have the Gates of the Inn shut. Here's a Man murther'd, cry'd he; look that no Body makes his Escape. These Words struck all the Combatants with such a Terrour, that as soon as they reach'd their Ears they gave over, and left the Argument undecided. Away stole the Inn-keeper to his own Room, the Carrier to his Pannels, and the Wench to her Kennel; only the unfortunate Knight, and his as unfor­tunate Squire, remain'd where they lay, not be­ing able to stir, while the Officer, having let go Don Quixote's Beard, went out for a Light; in order to apprehend the suppos'd Murtherers. But [Page 156] the Inn-keeper having wisely put out the Lamp in the Gateway, as he sneak'd out of the Room, the Officer was oblig'd to repair to the Kitchen Chimney, where, with much ado, puffing and blowing a long while among the Embers, he at last made shift to get a Light.

CHAP. III. A further Account of the innumerable Hardships which the brave [...]on Quix­ote, and his worthy Squire Sancho un­derwent in the Inn, which the Knight unluckily took for a Castle.

DOn Quixote, who by this Time was come to himself, began to call Sancho with the same lamentable Tone as the Day before when he had been beaten by the Carriers in the Mea­dow. Sancho, cry'd he, Friend Sancho, art thou asleep? Art thou asleep, Friend Sancho? Sleep, reply'd Sancho, mightily out of Humour, may Old Nick rock my Cradle then. Why, how the Devil should I sleep, when all the Imps of Hell have been tormenting me to Night? Nay, thou'rt in the right, answer'd Don Quixote, for either I have no Skill in these Matters, or this Castle is enchanted. Hear what I say to thee, but first swear, thou will't never reveal it till after my Death. I swear it, quoth Sancho. I am thus cautious, said Don Quixote, because I hate to take away the Reputation of any Person. Why, quoth Sancho, I tell you again, I swear ne­ver to speak a word of the Matter while you live; and I wish I may be at liberty to talk on't to Morrow. How, cry'd Don Quixote! Have I done thee so much wrong, Sancho, that thou would'st have me die so soon? Nay, 'tis not for [Page 138] that neither, quoth Sancho; but because I can't abide to keep things long, for fear they shou'd grow mouldy. Well, let it be for what thou pleasest, said Don Quixote: For I dare trust greater Concerns to thy Courtesie and Affection. In short, I know, that this very Night there has happen'd to me one of the strangest Adventures that can be imagin'd; for, the Daughter of the Lord of this Castle came to me, who is one of the most engaging and most beautiful Damsels that ever Nature has been proud to boast of: What cou'd I not tell thee of the Charms of her Shape and Face, and the Perfections of her Mind! What cou'd I not add of other hidden Beauties, which I condemn to Silence and Obli­vion, lest I endanger my Allegiance and Fide­lity to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso! I will only tell thee, That the Heavens envying the inesti­mable Happiness which Fortune had thrown into my Hands; or rather, because this Castle is en­chanted, it happen'd, that in the midst of the most tender and passionate Discourses that past between us, the prophane Hand of some mighty Giant, which I cou'd not see, nor imagine whence it came, hit me such a dreadful Blow on the Jaws, that they are still embru'd with Blood; after which the discourteous Wretch presuming on my present Weakness, did so barbarously bruise me, that I feel my self in a worse Con­dition now than I did Yesterday, after the Car­riers had so roughly handled me for Rozinante's Incontinency: From which I conjecture, that the Treasure of this Damsel's Beauty is guarded by some enchanted Moor, and not reserv'd for me.

[Page 139]Nor for me neither, quoth Sancho; for I have been Rib-roasted by above Four Hundred Moors, who have hammer'd my Bones in such guise, that I may safely say, the Assault and Battery made on my Body by the Carrier's Poles and Pack-staves, were but ticklings and stroakings with a Feather to this. But, Sir, pray tell me, d'ye call this such a pleasant Adventure, when we are so lamentably pounded after it? And yet your hap may well be accounted better than mine, seeing you've hugg'd that fair Maiden in your Arms. But I, what have I had, I pray you, but the heaviest Blows that e're fell on a poor Man's Shoulders? Woe's me and the Mother that bore me, for I neither am nor ever mean to be a Knight-Errant, and yet the elder Brother's Portion of Mischiefs falls still to my Lot. What, hast thou been beaten as well as I, said Don Quixote? What a Plague, cry'd Sancho, han't I been telling you so all this while? Come, ne­ver let it trouble thee, Friend Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote; for I'll immediately make the precious Balsam that will cure thee in the twinkling of an Eye.

By this time the Officer, having lighted his Lamp, came into the Room, to see who it was that was Murther'd: Sancho seeing him enter in his Shirt, a Napkin wrapt about his Head like a Turbant, and the Lamp in his hand, he being also an ugly ill-look'd Fellow; Sir, quoth the Squire to his Master, pray see whether this be not the enchanted Moor that's come again to have t'other Bout with me, and try whether he has not left some place unbruis'd for him now to maul as much as the rest? It cannot be the Moor, reply'd Don Quixote: For Negromancers [Page 160] never suffer themselves to be seen. If they don't suffer themselves to be seen, quoth Sancho, at least they suffer themselves to be felt: If not, let my Carcass bear witness. So might mine, cry'd Don Quixote: Yet this is no sufficient Reason to prove, that what we see is the enchanted Moor.

While they were thus arguing the Officer ad­vanc'd, and wonder'd to be [...] [...]wo Men talk so calmly to one another [...] Yet finding the unfortunate Knight lying [...] same deplo­rable Posture as no left him, [...]tch'd out like a Corps, bloody, [...]nis'd and beplaister'd, and not able to stir himself [...]w [...]s't honest Fellow, quoth he to the Champ [...], how do you find your self? Were I your Fellow, reply'd Don Quixote, I wou'd have a little more Manners than you have, you Blockhead, you, is that your way of approaching Knights-Errant in this Country? The Officer cou'd not bear such a Reprimand from one who made so scurvy a Figure, and lifting up the Lamp, Oil and all, hit Don Quix­ote such a Blow on the Head with it, that he had Reason to fear he had made Work for the Sur­geon, and therefore stole presently out of the Room, under the Protection of the Night. Well, Sir, quoth Sancho, d'you think now 'twas the en­chanted Moor or no? For my part, I think he keeps the Treasure you talk of for others, and re­ [...]ves only Kicks, Cuffs, Thumps and Knocks [...] your Worship and my self. I am now con­vinc'd, answer'd Don Quixote: Therefore, let's wave that Resentment of these Injuries, which we might otherwise justly shew; for considering these Enchanters can make themselves invisible when they please, 'tis needless to think of Re­venge. But, I prethee rise, if thou can'st, San­cho, [Page 161] and desire the Governor of the Castle to send me some Oil, Salt, Wine and Rosemary, that I may make my healing Balsam; for truly I want it extremely, so fast the Blood flows out of the Wound which the Fantasm gave me now.

Sancho then got up as fast as his aking Bones wou'd let him, and with much ado made shift to crawl out of the Room to look for the Inn-keeper, and stumbling by the way on the Officer who stood hearkning to know what Mischief he had done; Sir, quoth he to him, for Heav'ns sake do so much as help us to a little Oil, Salt, Wine and Rosemary, to make a Med'cine for one of the best Knights-Errant that e're trod on Shoe of Leather, who lies yonder grievously wounded by the enchanted Moor of this Inn. The Officer hearing him talk at that Rate, took him to be out of his Wits; and it beginning to be Day Light, he open'd the Inn Door, and told the Inn-keeper what Sancho wanted. The Host presently provided the desired Ingredients, and Sancho crept back with 'em to his Master, whom he found holding his Head, and sadly complain­ing of the Pain which he felt there; tho' after all, the Lamp had done him no more harm than only the raising of two huge Bumps; for that which he fancy'd to be Blood, was only Sweat and the Oil of the Lamp that had liquor'd his Hair and Face.

The Knight took all the Ingredients, and having mix'd 'em together, he had 'em set o're the Fire, and there kept 'em boiling till he thought they were enough. That done, he ask'd for a Viol to put this precious Liquor in. But there being none to be got, the Inn-keeper pre­sented [Page 142] him with an old earthen Jug, and Don Quixote was forc'd to be contented with that. Then he mumbled over the Pot above fourscore Pater-noster's, and as many Ave-Maria's, Salve-Regina's, and Creedo's, making the Sign of the Cross at every Word by way of Benediction. At which Ceremony, Sancho, the Inn-keeper, and the Officer were present; for, as for the Carrier, he was gone to look after his Mules, and took no manner of Notice of what was past. This blessed Medicine being made, Don Quixote resolv'd to make an immediate Experiment of it on himself, and to that purpose he took off a good Draught of the overplus which his Jug wou'd not hold. But he had scarce gulp'd it down, when it set him a Vomiting so violently, that you wou'd have thought he'd have cast up his Heart, Liver, and Guts: And his reaching and straining put him into such a Sweat, that he desir'd to be cover'd up warm, and left to his Repose. With that they left him, and he slept three whole Hours, and then waking, found himself so wonderfully eas'd, that he made no question but he had now the right Balsam of Fierabrass; and therefore he thought he might safely undertake all the most dangerous Adven­tures in the World, without the least hazard of his Person.

Sancho encourag'd by the wonderful Effect of the Balsam on his Master, begg'd that he wou'd be pleas'd to give him leave to sip up what was left in the Pot, which was no small Quantity; and the Don having consented, honest Sancho lifted it up with both his Hands, and with a strong Faith, and better Will, pour'd every drop down his Throat. Now the Man's Stomach [Page 143] not being so nice as his Master's, the Drench did not set him a Vomiting after that manner; but caus'd such a wambling in his Stomach, such a bitter loathing, kecking and reaching, and such grinding Pangs, with cold Sweats and Swoon­ings, that he verily believ'd his last Hour was come, and in the midst of his Agony gave both the Balsam and him that made it to the Devil. Friend, said Don Quixote, seeing him in that sad Condition, I begin to think all this Pain befalls thee only because thou hast not receiv'd the Or­der of Knighthood; for 'tis my Opinion, this Balsam ought to be us'd by no Man that is not a profess'd Knight. What a plague did you mean then, by letting me drink it, quoth San­cho? A Murrain on me and all my Generation, why did you not tell me this before? At length the Dose began to Work to some purpose, and forc'd its way at both Ends, so copiously, that both his Bed-Mat and Coverlet were soon made unfit for any further use; and all the while he strain'd so hard, that not only himself but the standers-by thought he wou'd have dy'd. This dreadful Hurricane lasted about two Hours; and then too, instead of finding himself as free from Pain as his Master, he felt himself so fee­ble and so far spent, that he was not able to stand.

But Don Quixote, as we've said, found him­self in an excellent Temper; and his active Soul loathing an inglorious Repose, he pre­sently was impatient to depart to perform the Duties of his adventurous Profession. For he thought those Moments that were trifled away in Amusements or other Concerns, only a Blank in Life; and all Delays, a depriving distress'd Per­sons, [Page 164] and the World in general, of his needed Assistance. The Confidence which he repos'd in his Balsam, heighten'd if possible his Resoluti­on; and thus carried away by his eager Thoughts, he sadled Rozinante himself, and then put the Pannel upon the Ass, and his Squire upon the Pannel, after he had help'd him to huddle on his Cloths. That done he mounted his Steed, and having spy'd a Javelin that stood in a Corner, he siez'd and appropriated it to himself to supply the want of his Lance; above twenty People that were in the Inn stood Spectators of all these Transactions, and among the rest the Inn-keeper's Daughter, from whom Don Quixote had not Power to withdraw his Eyes; breathing out at every Glance a deep Sigh from the very bot­tom of his Heart; which those who had seen him so mortify'd the Night before, took to proceed from the Pain of his Bruises.

And now being ready to set forwards, he call'd for the Master of the House, and with a grave Delivery, my Lord Governor, cry'd he, the Fa­vours I have received in your Castle are so great and extraordinary, that they bind my grateful Soul to an eternal Acknowledgment. There­fore that I may be so happy as to discharge part of the Obligation, think if there be e're a proud Mortal Breathing, on whom you desire to be re­veng'd for some Affront or other Injury; and acquaint me with it now, and by my Order of Knighthood, which binds me to protect the Weak, relieve the Oppressed, and punish the Bad, I pro­mise you I'll take effectual Care that you shall have ample Satisfaction, to the utmost of your Wishes. Sir Knight, answer'd the Inn-keeper with as au­stere a Gravity, I shall not need your assistance to [Page 165] revenge any Wrong that may have been offer'd to my Person; for I wou'd have you to under­stand, that I am able to do my self Justice when ever any Man presumes to do me Wrong. There­fore all the Satisfaction I desire, is, That you wou'd pay your Reckoning for Horse-Meat and Man's-Meat, and all your Expences in my Inn. How! cry'd Don Quixote, is this an Inn? Yes, answer'd the Host, and one of the most noted and of the best Repute upon the Road. How strang­ly have I been mistaken then, cry'd Don Quixote! Upon my Honour I took it for a Castle, and a considerable one too. But if it be an Inn, and not a Castle, all I have to say, is, That you must excuse me from paying any Thing; for I wou'd by no means break the Laws which we Knights-Errant are bound to observe. Nor was it ever known that they ever paid in any Inn whatsoever. For this is the least Recompence that can be allow'd 'em for the intolerable La­bours they endure Day and Night, Winter and Summer, o' Foot and o' Horseback, pinch'd with Hunger, choak'd with Thirst, and expos'd to all the Injuries of the Air, and all the Inconvenien­cies in the World. I've nothing to do with all this, cry'd the Inn keeper, pay your Reckoning, and don't trouble me with your foolish Stories of a Cock and a Bull: I can't afford to keep House at that Rate. Thou art both a Fool and a Knave of an Inn-keeper, replied Don Quixote. And with that, clapping Spurs to Rosinante, and brandishing his Javelin at his Host, he rode out of the Inn, without any Opposition, and got a good way from it without so much as once look­ing behind him to see whether his Squire came af­ter him.

[Page 146]The Knight having thus gloriously Bilk'd his Lodging, and Bully'd the Inn-keeper out of his Reckoning, the Master being march'd off, there remain'd only the Man, who being as it were left in Pawn, wou'd gladly have sheer'd off too; but not being so lucky in giving his Host the slip, he was fairly stopt for the Reckoning. How­ever he swore bloodily he would not pay a Cross; for, the self same Law that acquitted the Knight acquitted the Squire. This put the Inn-keeper into a great Passion, and made him threaten Sancho very hard, telling him if he would not pay him by fair Means, he wou'd have him lay'd by the Heels that Moment. But Sancho swore by his Master's Knighthood, he wou'd sooner part with his Life than his Mony on such an Account; nor should the Squires in after-Ages ever have occasion to upbraid him with giving so ill a Precedent, or breaking their Rights. But as ill Luck would have it, there happen'd to be in the Inn four Segovia Clothiers, three Cordoua Point-makers, and two Sevil Hucksters, all brisk, gamesome, arch Fellows; who agree­ing all in the same Design, encompass'd Sancho, and pull'd him off his Ass, while one of 'em went to get a Blanket. Then they put the unfortu­nate Squire into it, and carry'd him into the Back-yard, where they toss'd him in the Air for several times together in the Blanket, as they do Dogs on Shrove-Tuseday in Spain. Poor Sancho made so grievous an Outcry all the while, that his Master heard him; and imagin'd those La­mentations were of some Person in Distress, and consequently the occasion of some Adventure; but having at last distinguish'd the Voice, he made to the Inn with a broken Gallop, and finding the [Page 147] Gates shut, he rode about to see whether he might not find some other way to get in. But he no sooner came to the Back-Yard-Wall, which was none of the highest, when he was an Eye Witness of the scurvy Trick that was put upon his Squire. There he saw him ascend and descend, and fro­lick and caper in the Air with so much Nimble­ness and Agility, that 'tis thought, the Knight himself cou'd not have forborn Laughing, had he been any thing less Angry. He did his best to get over the Wall, but alas he was so bruis'd, that he could not so much as alight from his Horse. This made him fume and chafe, and vent his Passion in a thousand Threats and Curses, so strange and various, that 'tis impossible to repeat 'em. But the more he Storm'd, the more they Toss'd and Laughed; Sancho on his side Begging, and Howling, and Threatning, and Damning, to as little purpose as his Master; for 'twas Weariness alone cou'd make the Tossers give over. Then they charitably put an end to his high Dancing, and set him upon his Ass again carefully, wrapt in his Mantle. But Maritor­nes's tender Soul made her Pity a Male Crea­ture, in such Tribulation, and thinking he had danc'd and tumbled enough to be a Dry, she was so generous as to help him to a Draught of Water, which she purposely drew from the Well that Moment, that it might be the cooler. San­cho clapt the Pot to his Mouth, but his Master made him desist; hold, hold, cry'd he, Son San­cho, Drink no Water Child; 'twill kill thee. Be­hold, I have here the most Holy Balsam, two Drops of which will cure thee effectually. Ha, (reply'd Sancho, shaking his Head and looking sowerly on the Knight with a side Face) Have you [Page 168] again forgot that I'm no Knight? Or wou'd you have me cast up the few Guts I've left since ye­sternights Job? Keep your Brewings for your self in the Devil's Name, and let me alone. With that he lifted the Jug to his Nose, but finding it to be meer Element, he spirted out again the little he had tasted, and desir'd the Wench to help him to some better Liquor. So she went and fetch'd him Wine to make him amends, and paid for't too out of her own Pocket; for to give the De­vil his Due, 'twas said of her, that tho she was somewhat too free of her Favours, yet she had something of Christianity in her. As soon as Sancho had tipp'd off his Wine, he visited his Asses Ribbs Twice or Thrice with his Heels, and free Egress being granted him, he troop'd off, mightily tickled with the Thoughts of having had his Ends, and got off shot-free, tho at the Expense of his Shoulders, his usual Sureties: 'Tis true, the Inn-keeper kept his Wallet for the Reckoning; but the poor Squire was so dismay'd, and in such haste to be gone, that he never miss'd it. The Host was for shutting the Inn Doors after him, for fear of the Worst; but the Tossers would not let him, being a sort of Fellows that would not have matter'd Don Quixote a Straw, tho he had really been one of the Knights of the Round-Table.

CHAP. IV. Of the Discourse between the Knight and the Squire, with other Matters worth relating.

SAncho overtook his Master, but so pale, so dead-hearted, and so mortify'd, that he was hardly able to sit his Ass. My dear San­cho, said Don Quixote seeing him in that Condi­tion, I am now fully convinc'd, that this Castle or Inn is inchanted: For, what cou'd they be that made themselves such barbarous Sport with Thee, but Spirits, and People of the other World? And I the rather believe this, seeing, that when I look'd over the Wall and saw thee thus abus'd, I strove to get over it, but could not For, nor by any means alight from Rozinante. For, by my Honour, cou'd I either have got over the Wall or dismounted, I wou'd have re­veng'd thee so effectually on those discourteous Wretches, that they shou'd never have forgot the Severity of their Punishment, tho' for once I had [...]nfring'd the Laws of Chivalry, which, as I have often inform'd thee, do not permit any Knight to [...]ay Hands on one that is not Knighted, unless [...]t be in his own Defence, and in case of great Necessity. Nay, quoth Sancho, I would have [...]ay'd 'em home my self, whether Knight or no Knight, but 'twas not in my Power; and yet I [...]are say, those that play'd at Shuttlecock with [Page 170] my Carcass were neither Spirits nor enchanted Folks, as you have it, but meer Flesh and Blood as we be; I'm sure they call'd one another by their Christian Names and Sirnames, while they made me vault and frisk in the Air; one was call'd Pedro Martinez, t'other Tenorio Hernandez; and as for our Dog of a Host, I heard 'em call him Juan Palomeque the Left-handed. Then pray don't you fancy, that your not being able to get over the Wall nor to alight was some En­chanter's Trick. 'Tis a Folly to make many Words, 'tis as plain as the Nose in a Man's Face that these same Adventures which we hunt for up and down, are like to bring us at last into a Peck of Troubles, and such a plaguy deal of Mischief, that we shan't be able to set one Foot before t'other. The short and the long is, I take it to be our wisest Course to jog home, and look af­ter our Harvest, lest we leap out of the Frying-pan into the Fire, or out of God's Blessing into the warm Sun. Poor Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote! how ignorant thou art in Matters of Chivalry! Come, say no more, and have patience: A Day will come when thou shalt be convinc'd how ho­nourable a Thing it is to follow this Employ­ment. For tell me, what Satisfaction in this World, what Pleasure, can equal that of van­quishing and triumphing over one's Enemy? None without Doubt. It may be so, for ought I know, quoth Sancho; tho' I know nothing of the Matter. However this I may venture to say, that ever since we are turn'd Knights-errant, (your Worship I mean, for 'tis not for such Scrubs as my self to be nam'd the same Day with such Folk) the Devil of any Fight you've had the better of, unless it be that with the Biscayan, and in that too, [Page 171] (Heav'n help your Head) you came off with the loss of one Ear and the Vizor of your Helmet. And what have we got ever since pray but Ba­stinadoes, Kicks, and Thumps; Kicks, Thumps, and Bastinadoes; and Thumps, Bastinadoes, and Kicks; Blows and more Blows, Bruises and more Bruises? Besides this tossing in a Blanket which fell all to my Share, and for which I can't be reveng'd, because they were Hobgoblins that serv'd me so forsooth, tho' I hugely long to be even with 'em, that I may know the Pleasure you say there is in vanquishing one's Enemy. I find Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote, thou and I are both sick of the same Disease. But I will en­deavour with all speed to get me a Sword made with so much Art, that no sort of Inchantment shall be able to hurt whosoever shall wear it; and perhaps Fortune may put into my Hands that which Amadis de Gaul wore when he styl'd himself, The Knight of the burning Sword, which was one of the best Blades that ever was drawn by Knight; for besides the Virtue I now men­tion'd, it had an Edge like a Razor, and wou'd enter the strongest Armour that ever was tem­per'd, or inchanted. I'll lay any Thing, quoth Sancho, when you've found this Sword, 'twill prove just such another help to me as your Bal­sam; that is to say, 'twill stand no Body in any stead but your Dubb'd Knights, let the poor De­vil of a Squire shift how he can. Fear no such Thing, reply'd Don Quixote; Heaven will be more propitious to thee than thou imaginest.

Thus they went on Discoursing, when Don Quixote, perceiving a thick Cloud of Dust arise right before 'em in the Road, The Day is come, cry'd he, turning to his Squire, the Day is come, [Page 172] Sancho, that shall usher in the Happiness which Fortune has reserv'd for me. This Day shall the Strength of my Arm be signaliz'd by such Ex­ploits as shall be transmitted even to the latest Posterity. See'st thou that Cloud of Dust, San­cho? It is rais'd by a prodigious Army marching this way, and compos'd of an infinite number of Nations. Why then, at this Rate, quoth Sancho, there should be two Armies; for yonder's as great a Dust on t'other side. With that Don Quixote look'd, and was transported with Joy at the Sight, firmly believing that two vast Armies were ready to engage each other in that Plain: For his Imagination was so crouded with those Battles, Inchantments, surprizing Adventures, amorous Thoughts, and other Whimsies, which he had read of in Romances, that his strong Fancy chang'd every Thing he saw into what he desir'd to see; and thus he could not conceive that the Dust was only rais'd by two large Flocks of Sheep that were moving in two different Roads in that spacious Plain, and cou'd not be discern'd till they were very near. He was so positive that they were two Armies, that Sancho firmly believ'd him at last. Well, Sir, quoth the Squire, what are we to do, I beseech you? What shou'd we do, reply'd Don Quixote, but assist the weaker and the injur'd Side? For know, Sancho, that the Army which now moves towards us is com­manded by the great Alifanfaron, Emperor of the vast Island of Taprobana The other that ad­vances behind us is his Enemy the King of the Garamantians, Pentapolin with the naked Arm, so call'd because he always [...]ghts with his Arm bate. Pray Sir, quoth Sancho why are these two great Men going together by the Ears? The occasion [Page 173] of their Quarrel is this, answer'd Don Quixote: Alifanfaron, a strong Pagan, is in Love with Pen­tapolin's Daughter, a very beautiful Lady and a Christian: Now her Father refuses to give her in Marriage to the Heathen Prince, unless he ab­jure his false Belief, and embrace the Christian Religion. Burn my Beard, cry'd Sancho, if Pen­tapolin ben't in the right on't. I'll stand by h [...]m, and help him all I may. I commend thy Reso­lution, reply'd Don Quixote; 'tis not only lawful but requisite; for there's no need of being a Knight to fight in such Battels. I guess'd as much, quoth Sancho: But where shall we leave my Ass in the mean time, that I may be sure to find him again after the Battle? For I fancy you never heard of any Man that ever charg'd upon such a Beast. 'Tis true, answer'd Don Quixote; and therefore I wou'd have thee turn him loose, tho' thou wert sure never to find him again; for we shall have so many Horses after we have got the Day, that even Rozinante himself will be in Dan­ger of being chang'd for another. Then mount­ing to the Top of a Hillock, whence they might have seen both the Flocks had not the Dust ob­structed their Sight, Look yonder, Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote! that Knight whom thou seest in the gilded Arms, bearing in his Shield a Crown'd Lion couchant at the Feet of a Lady, is the va­liant Laurcalco Lord of the Silver Bridge. He in the Armour pouder'd with Flowers of Gold, bearing three Crowns Argent in a Field Azure is the formidable Micocolembo Great Duke of Qui­rocia. That other of a Gigantick Size, that marches on his Right, is the undaunted Branda­barbaran of Boliche, Sovereign of the three Ara­bia's; he's array'd in Serpents-skin, and carries [Page 174] instead of a Shield, a huge Gate which they say belong'd to the Temple which Sampson pull'd down at his Death, when he reveng'd himself upon his Enemies. But cast thy Eyes on this side, Sancho, and at the Head of t'other Army see the ever victorious Timonel of Carcaiona, Prince of New Biscay, whose Armor is quarter'd Azure, V [...]rt, Or, and Argent, and who bears in his Shield a Cat Or, in a Field Gules, with these four Letters, MIAƲ, for a Motto, being the beginning of his Mistresse's Name, the beau­tiful Miaulina, Daughter to Alpheniquen, Duke of Algarva. That other monstrous Load upon the Back of yonder wild Horse, with Arms as white as Snow, and a Shield without any Device, is a new-created Knight, call'd Pierre Papin, Baron of Ʋtrick in France. He, whom you see prick­ing that py'd Courser's Flanks with his arm'd Heels, is the mighty Duke of Nervia, Espartasi­lardo of the Wood, bearing in his Shield a Field Vert, Powder'd with Asparagus, and a Harrow for his Device, with this Motto,So trails my Fortune. Rastrea mi Suerte. And thus he went on, naming a great number of others in both Armies, to every one of whom his fertil Imagination as­sign'd Arms, Colours, Impresses and Motto's, as readily as if they had really been that moment extant before his Eyes. And then proceeding without the least Hesitation, That vast Body, said he, that's just opposite to us, is compos'd of several Nations. There you see those who drink the pleasant Stream of the famous Xanthus. There the Mountaineers that Till the Massilian Fields. Those that sift the pure Gold of Arabia Foelix. Those that inhabit the renown'd and delightful [Page 175] Banks of Thermodoon. Yonder, those who so many ways sluce and drain the Golden Pactolus for its precious Sand. The Numidians, un­steady, and careless of their Promises. The Per­sians, excellent Archers. The Medes and Par­thians, who make their Flight a War. The Arabs, who have no fix'd Habitations. The Scythians, Cruel and Savage, tho' fair Comple­ction'd. The sooty Ethiopians, that bore their Lips; and a thousand other Nations whose Coun­tenances I know, tho' I have forgot their Names. On the other side come those whose Country is water'd with the Chrystal Stream of Betis, shad­ed with Olive Trees. Those who Bathe their Limbs in the rich Flood of the Golden Tagus. Those whose Mansions are lav'd by the profita­ble Stream of the Divine Genile. Those who range the Verdant Tartesian Meadows. Those who indulge their luxurious Temper in the de­licious Pastures of Xerez. The wealthy Inhabi­tants of the Mancha, crown'd with Golden Ears of Corn. The ancient Off-spring of the Goths, immur'd with Iron. Those who wanton in the Lazy Current of Pisverga. Those who feed their numerous Flocks in the ample Plains where the Guadiana, so celebrated for its hidden Course, pursues its wandring Race. Those who shiver with extremity of Cold on the windy Pyrenean Hills, or on the hoary Tops of the Snowy Appennine. In a word, all that Europe includes within its spacious Bounds, half a World in an Army. 'Tis scarce to be imagin'd how many Countries he ran over, how many Nations he enumerated, di­stinguishing every one by what is peculiar to 'em, with an incredible Vivacity of Mind, and that still in the puffy Stile of his fabulous Books. [Page 176] Sancho listen'd to all this Romantic Muster-Roll, as mute as a Fish, with Amazement; all he cou'd do was to stare with his Goggles, and now and then turn his Jobber-noll, on this side and t' other side, to see if he cou'd discern the Knights and Giants whom his Master nam'd. But at length not being able to discover any; why, cry'd he, you had as good tell me it Snows; the Devil of any Knight, Giant, or Man can I see, of all those you talk of now; who knows but all this may be Witchcraft and Spirits, like Yester-night! How, reply'd Don Quixote! Do'st thou not hear their Horses neigh, their Trumpets sound, and the Drums beat? Not I, quoth San­cho. I prick up my Ears like a Sow in the Beans, and yet I can hear nothing but the Bleating of Sheep. Sancho might justly say so indeed, for by this time the two Flocks were got very near 'em. Thy Fears disturb thy Senses, said Don Quixote, and hinder thee from seeing or hearing right. But 'tis no matter; withdraw to some place of Safety, since thou art so terrify'd; for I alone am sufficient to give the Victory to that side which I shall favour with my Assistance. With that, he couch'd his Lance, clapt Spurs to Ro­zinante, and rush'd like a Thunder-bolt from the Hillock into the Plain. Sancho baul'd after him as lou'd as he cou'd; hold, Sir, cry'd he; for Heaven's sake come back. What d' you mean? As sure as I'm a Sinner, those you're going to maul are nothing but poor harmless Sheep. Come back, I say. Wo be to him that begot me! Are you mad, Sir? There are no Giants, no Knights, no Cats, no Asparagus Gardens, no Golden Quarters, nor what d'e call 'ems. Do's the Devil possess you? You're leaping over the [Page]

[Page] [Page 177] Hedge before you come at the Stile. You're taking the rong Sow by the Ear. Oh that ever I' was born to see this Day. But Don Quixote still riding on, deaf and lost to good Advice, out­roar'd his expostulating Squire. Courage, brave Knights, cry'd he, march up, fall on, all you who fight under the Standard of the valiant Pen­tapolin, with the naked Arm. Follow me, and you shall see how easily I will revenge him on that Infidel Alifanfaron, of Taprobana; and so saying, he charg'd the Squadron of Sheep with that Gallantry and Resolution, that he pierc'd, broke and put it to Flight, in an instant, charg­ing through and through, not without a great Slaughter of his mortal Enemies, whom he laid at his Feet biting the Ground, and wallowing in their Blood. The Shepherds seeing their Sheep go to Rack, call'd out to him; till finding fair Means ineffectual they unlos'd their Slings, and began to ply him with Stones as big as their Fists. But the Champion disdaining such a distant War, spight of their Showers of Stones, rush'd among the routed Sheep, trampling both the living and the slain in a most terrible manner, impatient to meet the General of the Enemy, and end the War at once. Where, where art thou, cry'd he, proud Alifanfaron? Appear! See here a single Knight who seeks thee every where, to try now, hand to hand, the boasted Force of thy strenuous Arm, and deprive thee of Life, as a due Punishment for the unjust War which thou ha'st audaciously wag'd with the valiant Penta­polin. Just as he had said this, while the Stones flew about his Ears, one unluckily lit upon his small Ribs, and had like to have buried two of the shortest deep in the middle of his Body. The [Page 178] Knight thought himself slain, or at least despe­rately wounded; and therefore calling to mind his precious Balsam, and pulling out his earthen Jug, he clapt it to his Mouth: But before he had swallow'd a sufficient Dose, souse comes ano­ther of St. Stephen's hard Loaves that spoil'd his Draught, and hit him so pat upon the Jug, Hand and Teeth, that it broke and struck off the first, maim'd the second, and pull'd out three or four of the last. These two Blows were so violent, that the boisterous Knight falling from his Horse, lay upon the Ground as quiet as the slain; so that the Sheperds fearing he was kill'd, got their Flock together with all speed, and carrying away their Dead, which were no less than seven Sheep, they made what haste they cou'd out of Harm's way, without looking any farther into the Mat­ter.

All this while, Sancho stood upon the Hill, where he was mortify'd upon the light of this brave Adventure. There he stamp'd and swore, and bann'd his Master to the bottomless Pit; he tore his Beard for madness, and curs'd the Moment he first knew him. But seeing him at last knock'd down, and settled, the Shepherds being scam­per'd, he thought he might venture to come down; and found him in very ill Plight, tho' not altogether senseless. Ah Master, quoth he, this comes of not taking my Counsel. Did not I tell you 'twas a Flock of Sheep, and no Ar­my? Friend Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, know, 'tis an easie matter for Negromancers to change the Shapes of Things as they please: Thus that malicious Enchanter, who is my inveterate Ene­my, to deprive me of the Glory which he saw me ready to acquire, while I was Reaping a [Page 179] full Harvest of Laurels, transform'd in a Mo­ment the routed Squadrons into Sheep. If thou wilt not believe me, Sancho, yet do one thing for my sake; do but take thy Ass, and follow those suppos'd Sheep at a distance, and I dare engage thou shalt soon see 'em resume their for­mer Shapes, and appear such as I describ'd em. But stay, do not go yet, for I want thy Assist­ance: Draw near, and see how many Cheek-Teeth and others I want, for by the dreadful Pain in my Jaws and Gums, I fear there's a to­tal Dilapidation in my Mouth. With that, the Knight open'd his Mouth as wide as he cou'd, while the Squire gap'd to tell his Grinders, with his Snowt almost in his Chaps; but just in that fatal Moment the Balsam that lay wambling and fretting in Don Quixote's Stomach, came up with an unlucky Hickup; and, with the same violence that the Powder flies out of a Gun, all that he had in his Stomach, discharg'd it self upon the Beard, Face, Eyes, and Mouth of the officious Squire. Oh holy Mother Mary, cry'd poor Sancho, what w [...]ll become of me! My Ma­ster is a dead Man; he's Vomitting his very Heart's Blood. But he had hardly said this, when the Colour, Smell and Taste soon unde­ceiv'd him; and finding it to be his Master's loathsom Drench, it turn'd his queasie Stomach, and caus'd such a sudden Rumbling in his Maw, that before he cou'd turn his Head he unladed the whole Cargo of his Gizard, full in his Master's Face, and put him in as delicate a Pickle as he was himself. Sancho having thus paid him in his own Coin half blinded as he was, ran to his Ass, to take out something to clean himself and his Master. But when he came to look for his [Page 180] Wallet, and found it missing, not remembring till then that he had unhappily left it in the Inn; oh then he was ready to run quite out of his Wits; he storm'd and stamp'd, and curs'd himself worse than before, and resolv'd with himself to let his Master go to the Devil, and e'en trudge home by himself, tho' he were sure to lose his Wages, and his hopes of being Go­vernor of the promis'd Island.

Thereupon Don Quixote got up with much a­do, and clapping his left hand before his Mouth, that the rest of his loose Teeth might not drop out; he laid his right on Rozinante's Bridle; (for such was the good Nature of the Creature, that he had not budg'd a Foot from his Master) then he crept along to Squire Sancho, that stood lolling on his Asse's Pannel, with his Fa [...]e in the hollow of both his hands, in a doleful moody melancholic Fit. Friend Sancho. said he, seeing him thus abandon'd to Sorrow, learn of me, that one Man is no more than another, if he do no more than what another does. All these Storms and Hurricanes are but Arguments of the ap­proaching Calm; better Success will soon fol­low our past Calamities; good and bad For­tune h [...]ve their Vicissitudes; and 'tis a Maxim, That nothing violent can last long. And there­fore we may well prom [...]se our selves a speedy Change in our Fortune, since our Afflictions have extended their Reign beyond the usual stint: Besides, thou oughtst not to afflict thy self so much for Misfortunes, of which thou hast no share, but what Friendship and Humanity bid thee take. How, quoth Sancho? Have I no other share in 'em? Was not he that was tost in the Blanket this Morning, the Son of my Father? And did [Page 181] not the Wallet, and all that was in't, which I have lost, belong to the Son of my Mother? How, ask'd Don Quixot, hast thou lost the Wallet? I don't know, quoth Sancho, Whe­ther 'tis lost or no, but I'm sure I can't tell what's become of it. Nay then reply'd Don Quixote, I find we must Fast to Day. Ay marry must we, quoth Sancho, unless you take Care to gather in these Fields some of those Roots and Herbs which I've heard you say, you know, and which use to help such unlucky Knights-Er­rant as your self at a dead Lift. For all that, cry'd Don Quixote, I wou'd rather have at this Time a good Luncheon of Bread, or a Cake and two Pilchards Heads, than all the Roots and Simples in Dioscorides's Herbal, and Doctor Laguna's Supplement and Commentary; I pray thee therefore get upon thy Ass, good Sancho, and follow me once more; for God's Providence that relieves every Creature will not fail us, espe­cially since we are about a Work so much to his Service: Thou seest he even provides for the little flying Insects in the Air, the Wormlings in the Earth, and the Spawnlings in the Water, and in his infinite Mercy he makes his Sun shine on the Righteous, and on the Unjust, and rains upon the Good and the Bad. Many Words won't fill a Bushel, quoth Sancho, interrupting him; you wou'd make a better Preacher, than a Knight Errant, or I'm plaguily out. Knights-Errant, re­ply'd Don Quixote, ought to know all Things; There have been such in former Ages that have deliver'd as ingenious and learned a Sermon or Oration at the Head of an Army, as if they had taken their Degrees at the University of Paris: From which we may infer, that the Lance ne­ver [Page 182] dull'd the Pen, nor the Pen the Lance. Well then, quoth Sancho, for once let it be as you'd have it; let us e'en leave this unlucky Place, and seek out a Lodging; where, I pray God, there may be neither Blankets, nor Blanket-heavers, nor Hobgoblins, nor Inchanted Moors; for be­fore I'll be hamper'd as I've been, may I be Curs'd with Bell, Book and Candle, if I don't give the Trade to the Devil. Leave all Things to Providence, reply'd Don Quixote, and for once lead which way thou pleases, for I leave it wholly to thy Discretion to provide us a Lodging. But first I pray thee, feel a little how many Teeth I want in my upper Jaw on the right side, for there I feel most Pain. With that Sancho feeling with his Finger in the Knight's Mouth, pray Sir, quoth he, How many Grinders did your Worship use to have on that side? Four, answer'd Don Quixote, besides the Eye-Tooth, all of 'em whole and sound. Think well on what you say, cry'd Sancho. I say Four, reply'd Don Quixote, if there were not Five, for I had never lost a Tooth before this Day. Bless me, quoth Sancho! Why, you have in this neather Jaw on this side but two Grinders and a Stump; and in that part of your upper Jaw, just never a Stump, and never a Grinder, alas all's levell'd there, as smooth as the Palm of one's Hand. Oh unfortunate Don Quixote, cry'd the Knight! I had rather have lost an Arm, so it were not my Sword Arm; for a Mouth without Cheek-Teeth, is like a Mill without a Mill-stone, San­cho; and every Tooth in a Man's Head is more valuable than a Diamond. But we that profess this strict Order of Knight-Errantry, are all sub­ject to these Calamities; and therefore since the [Page 183] Loss is irretrievable, mount, my trusty Sancho, and go thy own Pace; I'll follow thee. Sancho obey'd, and led the way, still keeping the Road they were in, which being very much beaten, promis'd to bring him soonest to a Lodging. Thus pacing along very softly, for Don Quixote's Gums and Ribs would not suffer him to go fa­ster, Sancho to divert his uneasy Thoughts, resolv'd to talk to him all the while of one thing or other, as the next Chapter will inform you.

CHAP. V. Of the wise Discourse between Sancho and his Master; as also of the Adventure of the dead Corps, and other famous Oc­currences.

NOW, Sir, quoth Sancho, I can't help think­ing but that all the Mishaps that have be­fall'n us of late, are a just Judgment for the grievous Sin you've committed against the Order of Knighthood, in not keeping the Oath you Swore, not to eat Bread at Board, nor to have a merry Bout with the Queen, and the Lord knows what more, till you had won What d'ye call him's Helmet, Member I think you nam'd him. Truly, answer'd Don Quixote, thou'rt much in the right, Sancho: And to deal Ingenuously with thee, I had wholly forgot that; and now thou may'st certainly assure thy self, thou wer't toss'd in a Blanket for not remembring to put me in [Page 184] Mind of it. However, I will take care to make due Atonement, for Knight-Errantry has ways to conciliate all sorts of Matters. Why, quoth Sancho, did I ever Swear to Mind you of your Vow? 'Tis nothing to the Purpose, reply'd Don Quixote, whether thou Swor'st or no. Let it suffice, that I think thou art not very clear from being accessary to the Breach of my Vow; and therefore, to prevent the worst, there will be no harm in providing a Remedy. Hark you then, cry'd Sancho; Be sure you don't forget your A­tonement, as you did your Oath, lest those con­founded Hobthrushes come and mawl me, and per'anture you too, for being stubborn Sinners.

Insensibly Night overtook 'em before they cou'd discover any Lodging; and which was worse, they were almost Hunger-starv'd, all their Pro­vision being in the Wallet which Sancho had un­luckily left behind; and to compleat their Di­stress, there happen'd to 'em an Adventure, or something that really look'd like one.

While our benighted Travellers went on dole­fully in the Dark, the Knight very Hungry, and the Squire very sharp set, what shou'd they see moving towards 'em but a great number of Lights, that appear'd like so many wandring Stars. At this strange Apparition, down sunk Sancho's Heart at once, and even Don Quixote himself was not without some Symptoms of Surprize. Pre­sently the one pull'd to him his Asse's Halter, the other his Horse's Bridle, and both made a stop. They soon perceiv'd that the Lights made directly towards 'em, and the nearer they came, the bigger they appear'd. At the terrible Won­der, Sancho shook and shiver'd every Jo'nt, like one in a Palsie, and Don Quixote's Hair stood [Page 185] up an end; however, heroically shaking off the Amazement, which that sight stampt on his Soul, Sancho, said he, this must doubtless be a great and most perilous Adventure, where I shall have occasion to exert the whole stock of my Courage and Strength. Woe's me, quoth Sancho, shou'd this happen to be another Adventure of enchant­ed Ghosts, as I fear me it is, where shall we find Ribs to endure it? Come all the Fiends in Hell, cry'd Don Quixote, I will not suffer 'em to touch a Hair o' thy Head; if they insulted thee lately; know there was then between them and me a Wall, over which I cou'd not climb; but now we are in the open Field, where I shall have Liberty to make use of my Sword. Ay, quoth Sancho, you may Talk, but should they bewitch you as they did before, What a Devil will it avail us to be in the open Field? Come, Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, be of good Cheer; the Event will soon convince thee of the greatness of my Valour. Needs must when the Devil Drives, quoth Sancho, I'll do my best; with that they rode somewhat out of the way, and gazing ear­nestly again at the Lights, they soon discover'd a great number of Persons all in White. At the dreadful Sight, all Poor Sancho's shuffling Cou­rage basely deserted him; his Teeth began to Chatter, as if he d been in an Ague-Fit; and as the Objects grew nearer, his Chattering encreas'd. And now they cou'd plainly distinguish about twenty Men on Horse-back, all in White, with Torches in their Hands, follow d by a Herse co­ver'd over with Black, and six Men in deep Mourning, whose Mules were also in Black, down to their very Heels. Those in White mov'd slowly, murmuring from their Lips some­thing [Page 186] in a low and lamentable Tone. This dis­mal Spectacle at such a Time of Night, in the midst of such a vast Solitude, was enough to have Shipwrack'd the Courage of a Stouter Squire than Sancho, and even of his Master, had he been any other than Don Quixote. But his Brain-sick Imagination suggesting to him that this was one of those Adventures, of which he had so often read in his Books of Chivalry; the Herse appear d to him to be a Litter, where, as he believ'd, lay the Body of some Knight, either slain or dangerously wounded, the Re­venge of whose Misfortunes was reserv'd for his prevailing Arm. And so without any more ado, couching his Lance, and seating himself firm in his Saddle, he posted himself in the middle of the Road, where the Company were to pass. As soon as they came near, Stand, cry'd he to 'em in a haughty Tone, whoever ye be, and tell me who ye are, whence ye come, whither ye go, and what you carry in that Litter? For there's all the reason in the World to believe, that you have either done or receiv'd a great deal of Harm, and 'tis requisite I should be inform'd of the Mat­ter, in order, either to punish you for the Ill you have committed, or else to revenge you of the Wrong you have suffer'd. Sir, answer'd one of the Men in white, we are in haste, the Inn is very far off, and we cannot stay to answer so many Questions; and with that spurring his Mule he mov'd forwards. But Don Quixote, highly dissatisfy'd with the Reply, laid hold on the Mule's Bridle, and stopt him. Stay, cry'd he, proud discourteous Knight, mend your Behaviour, and give me instantly an Account of what I ask'd of ye; or here I defy ye all to mortal Combat. [Page 187] Now the Mule that was shy and skittish, being thus rudely seiz'd by the Bridle, was presently scar'd, and rising up on her hinder Legs, threw her Rider to the Ground. Upon this one of the Footmen that belong'd to the Company gave Don Quixote ill Language, which so incens'd him, that being resolv'd to be reveng'd upon 'em all, in a mighty Rage he flew at the next he met, who happen'd to be one of the Mourners. Him he threw to the Ground very much hurt; and then turning to the rest with a wonderful Agility, he fell upon 'em with such a Fury, that he pre­sently put 'em all to Flight; you wou'd have thought Rozinante had Wings at that Time, so active and so fierce he then approv'd himself.

It was not indeed for Men unarm'd and natu­rally fearful to maintain the Field against such an Enemy, no wonder then if the Gentlemen in White were immediately dispers'd; some ran one way, some another, crossing the Plain with their lighted Torches, you wou'd now have taken 'em for a parcel of Frolicksome Masqueraders gamboling and scouring on a Carnaval-Night. As for the Mourners, they, poor Men, were so muffled up in their long combersome Clokes, that not being able to make their Party good, nor defend themselves, they were presently rout­ed, and ran away like the rest: The rather for that they thought 'twas no mortal Creature, but the Devil himself that was come to fetch away the dead Body, which they were accompanying to the Grave. All the while Sancho was lost in Admiration and Astonishment, charm'd with the Sight of his Master's Valour, and now con­cluded him to be the formidable Champion he boasted himself.

[Page 188]After this the Knight, by the Light of a Torch that lay burning on the Ground, perceiv­ing the Man who was thrown by his Mule, ly­ing near it, he rode up to him, and setting his Lance to his Throat, Yield, cry'd he, and beg thy Life, or thou dy'st. Alas, Sir, cry'd t'other, what need you ask me to yield? I am not able to stir; for one of my Legs is broken. And I be­seech you, if you're a Christian, do not kill me; I am in Holy Orders, and a Master of Arts; 'twou'd be a heinous Sacriledge to take away my Life. What a Devil brought you hither then, if you're a Clergy-man, cry'd Don Quixote? What else but my ill Fortune, reply'd the Sup­plicant. A worse hovers o'er thy Head, cry'd Don Quixote, and threatens thee, if thou do'st not answer this moment to every particular Que­stion I ask. I will, I will, Sir, reply'd the other; and first I must beg your Pardon for saying I was a Master of Arts; for I have yet taken but Batchelor's Degree: My Name's Alonso Lopez, I'm of Alcovendas, and came now from the Town of Baeca with eleven other Clergy-men, the same that now ran away with the Torches. We were going to Segovia to bury the Corps of a Gentleman of that Town who dy'd at Baeca, and lies now in yonder Herse. And who kill'd him, ask'd Don Quixote? Heaven, with a Pestilential Fever, answer'd the other. If it be so, said Don Quixote. I am discharg'd of revenging his Death. Since Heav'n did it, there's no more to be said; had it been its Pleasure to have taken me off so, I too must have submitted as I do. All I have now to tell you, Reverend Sir, is that I am a Knight of La Mancha, my Name Don Quixote; my Employment is to visit all Parts of the World [Page 189] in quest of Adventures, to right and relieve in­jur'd Innocence, and punish Oppression. Truly, Sir, reply'd the inferior Levite, I don't under­stand how you can call that to right and relieve Men, when you break their Legs: You've made that crooked that was right and strait before, and Heaven knows whether it can ever be set right as long as I live: Instead of relieving the Injur'd, I fear you've now injur'd me past Relief; and while you seek Adventures, you've made me meet with a very great Misadventure. All Things, reply'd Don Quixote, are not blest alike with a prosperous Event, good Mr. Batchelor. You shou'd have taken Care not to have thus gone a Processioning in these Desolate Plains, at this suspi­cious Time of Night, with your white Surplices, burning Torches, and Sable Weeds, like Ghosts and Goblins that went about to scare People out of their Wits. For I cou'd not omit doing the Duty of my Profession; nor wou'd I have for­born attacking you, tho' you had really been all Lucifer's infernal Crew; for such I took you to be, and till this moment cou'd have no better Opinion of you. Well, Sir, said the Batchelor, since 'tis my hard Fortune, I must only desire you, as you're a Knight-Errant and a Reliever of the Oppress'd, to help me to get from under my Mule; for it lies so heavy on me that I can't get my Foot out of the Stirrup Why did not you acquaint me sooner with your Grievance, cry'd Don Quixote? I might have talk'd on till to Mor­row Morning and never have thought on't. With that, he call'd Sancho, who made no great haste for he was much better employ'd, rifling a Load of choice Provision which the Holy Men carry'd along with 'em on a Sumpter Mule. He [Page 190] had spread his Coat on the Ground; and having laid on it as much Food as it wou'd hold, he wrapt it up like a Bag, and laid the precious Booty on his Ass, and then away he ran to his Master, and help'd him to set the Batchelor, upon his Mule. After which he gave him his Torch, and Don Quixote bid him follow his Company, and excuse him for his Mistake; tho', all Things consider'd, he cou'd not avoid doing what he had done. And Sir, quoth Sancho, if the Gentleman wou'd know who 'twas that so well thresh'd their Jackets, you may tell 'em, 'twas the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise call'd the Knight of the Woful Countenance.

When the Batchelor was gone, Don Quixote ask'd Sancho why he call'd him the Knight of the Woful Countenance? I'll tell you why, quoth Sancho; I have been staring upon you this pretty while by the Light of that unlucky Priest's Torch, and may I ne'er stir if e'er I sat Eyes on a more Woful Phiz in my born Days; and I can't tell what shou'd be the Cause on't, unless your being tir'd after this Fray, or the want of your Wor­ship's Teeth. This is not the Reason, cry'd Don Quixote; No, Sancho, I rather conjecture that the Sage who is commissioned by Fate to regi­ster my Atchievements, thought it convenient I shou'd assume a new Appellation as all the Knights of yore. For one was call'd The Knight of the Burning Sword; another of the Unicorn; a third of the Phoenix, a fourth the Knight of the Damsels; another of the Gryphon, and another the Knight of Death. By which By-names and Distinctions they were known all over the Globe. Therefore doubtless that Learned Inchanter, my Historian, has inspir'd thee with the Thought of [Page 191] giving me that additional Appellation, of the Knight of the Woful Countenance. And accord­ingly I arrogate the Name, and intend hencefor­wards to be distinguish'd by that awful Denomi­nation. And that [...]t may seem the more proper, I will with the first Opportunity have a most Woful Countenance painted on my Shield. O' my Word, quoth Sancho, you may e'en save the Mony; and instead of having a Woful Face painted, you need do no more but only show your own: I'm but in Jest, as a Body may say; but, what with the want of your Teeth, and what with Hunger, you look so queerly and so wofully, that no Painter can draw you a Face so fit for your purpose as your Worship's. This merry Conceit of Sancho extorted a Smile from his Master's austere Countenance. However he persisted in his Resolution about the Name and the Picture; and after a Pause, a sudden Thought disturbing his Conscience, Sancho, cry'd he, I am afraid of being Excommunicated, for having laid violent Hands upon a Man in Holy Orders: Juxta illud; si quis suadente Diabolo, &c. Can. 7. Distinct. 134. But yet now I think better on't, I never touch'd him with my Hands, but only with my Lance; besides, I did not in the least suspect I had to do with Priests, whom I honour and revere as every good Catholick and faithful Christian ought to do; but rather took 'em to be evn Spirits. Well, let the worst come to the worst, I remember what befel the Cid Ruy-Diaz when he broke to pieces the Chair of a King's [...]mbassador, in the Pope's Presence, for which he was Excommunicated: Which did not hinder the worthy Rodrigo de Vivar from behaving himself that Day like a valorous Knight and a Man of Honour.

[Page 192]This said, Don Quixote was for visiting the Herse, to have seen whether what was in it were only dead Bones. But Sancho would not let him; Sir, quoth he, you are come off now with a whole Skin, and much better than you have done hitherto. Who knows but these same Fellows that are now scamper'd off may chance to bethink themselves what a shame it is for 'em to have suffered themselves to be thus routed by a single Man, and so come back and fall upon us all at once, then we shall have Work enough upon our Hands. The Ass is in good Case. There's a Hill not far off, and our Bellies cry Cup-board: Come, let's e'en get out of Harms-way, and not let the Plough stand to catch a Mouse, as the Say­ing is, To the Grave with the Dead; and them that live, to the Bread. With that he put on a Dog-Trot with his Ass, and his Master, bethinking himself that he was in the right, put on after him without replying.

After they had rid a little way, they came to a Valley that lay sculking between two Hills; there they alighted; and Sancho having open'd his Coat and spread it on the Grass, with the Provision which he had bundled up in it, our two Adventurers fell on; and their Stomachs be­ing sharpen'd with the Sawce of Hunger, they eat their Breakfast, Dinner, Afternoons-Luncheon and Supper, all at one Time; feasting them­selves with variety of cold Meat, which you may be sure was the best that could be got; the Priests, who had brought it for their own eating, being like the rest of their Coat, none of the worst Stewards for their Bellies, and knowing how to make much of themselves.

[Page 193]But now they began to grow sensible of a very great Misfortune, and such a Misfortune as was bemoan'd by poor Sancho as one of the sad­dest that ever could befal him. For they found they had not a drop of Wine to wash down their Meat and quench their Thirst, which now scorch'd and choakt 'em worse than Hunger had pinch'd 'em before. However, Sancho considering they were in a Place where the Grass was fresh and green, said to his Master—What you shall find in the following Chapter.

CHAP. VI. Of a most wonderful Adventure atchiev'd by the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha; the like never compass'd with less Danger by any of the most famous Knights in the World.

THE Grass is so fresh (quoth Sancho, half choak'd with Thirst) that I dare lay my Life we shall light o' some Spring or Stream hereabouts; therefore, Sir, let's look, I beseech you, that we may quench this confounded Drowth that plagues our Throats ten times worse than Hunger did our Guts. Thereupon Don Quixote leading Rozinante by the Bridle, and Sancho his Ass by the Halter, after he had laid up the Reversion of their Meal, they went feeling about, only guided by their Guess; for 'twas so dark they scarce cou'd see their [Page 194] Hands. They had not gone above two hun­dred Paces before they heard a Noise of a great Water fall; which was to them the most welcome Sound in the World. But then li­st'ning with great Attention to know on which side the grateful Murmur came, they on a sudden heard another kind of Noise that strangely al­lay'd the pleasure of the first, especially in San­cho, who was naturally no Hero, and sufficiently a Coward. They heard a terrible Din of ob­streperous Blows, struck with Measure, and a more dreadful rattling of Chains and Irons, which together with the roaring of the Waters, might have fill'd any other Heart but Don Quixote's with Terror and Amazement. Add to this the Horrors of dark Night and Solitude, in an un­known Place, the loud rustling of the Leaves of some lofty Trees, under which Fortune brought 'em at the same unlucky Moment; and the whist­ling of the Wind, which concurr'd with the other dismaying Sounds; the fall of the Waters, the thundering Thumps, and the clinking of Chains. The worst too was, that the Blows were redoubled without ceasing, the Wind blow'd on, and Day-light was far distant. But then it was, that Don Quixote, secur'd by Intre­pidity his unseparable Companion, mounted his R [...]zinante, brac'd his Shield, brandish'd his Lance, and shew'd a Soul unknowing Fear, and Superior to Danger and Fortune. Know, Sancho, cry'd he, I was born in this Iron Age, to restore the Age of Gold, or the Golden Age, as some chuse to call it. I am the Man for whom Fate has reserv'd the most dangerous and formidable Attempts, the most stupendous and glorious Ad­ventures, and the most valorous Feats of Arms. [Page 195] I am the Man who must revive the Order of the Round-Table, the twelve Peers of France, and the nine Worthies. I am the Man whose ne're-to-be-forgotten Atchievements must efface the Memory of your Platirs, your Tablantes, your Olivantes, and your Tiranses. Now must your Knights of the Sun, your Belianis's, and all the numerous Throng of vulgar Heroes, and Knights-Errant of former Ages, see the Glory of all their most dazzling Actions eclips'd and darken'd by my more illustrious Exploits. Do but observe, O thou my faithful Squire, what a Multifarious Assemblage of Terrors surrounds us! A horrid Darkness, a doleful Solitude, a con­fus'd rustling of Leaves, a dismal rattling of Chains, a howling of the Winds, an astonishing noise of Cataracts, that seem to fall with a boi­sterous Rapidity, from the steep Mountains of the Moon; a terrible sound of redoubled Blows, still wounding our Ears like furious Thunder­claps, and a dead and universal Silence of those Things that might buoy up the sinking Courage of frail Mortality. In this Extremity of Dan­ger, Mars himself might tremble with affright. Yet I in the midst of all these unutterable A­larms, still remain undaunted and unshaken. These are but Incentives to my Valour, and but animate my Heart the more; it grows too big and mighty for my Breast, and leaps at the ap­proach of this threatning Adventure, as formi­dable as 'tis like to prove. Come, girt Ro­zinante streighter, and then Providence protect thee: Thou may'st stay for me here; but if I do not return in three Days, go back to our Vil­lage; and from thence, for my sake, to Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable Lady [Page 196] Dulcinea, That her faithful Knight fell a Sacri­fice to Love and Honour, while he attempted Things that might make him worthy to be call'd her Adorer.

When Sancho heard his Master talk thus, he fell a weeping in the most pitiful manner in the World. Pray, Sir, cry'd he, why will you thus run your self into Mischief? What need you go about this rueful Misventure? 'Tis main Dark, and there's ne're a living Soul sees us; we have nothing to do but to sheer off, and get out of Harm's way, tho' we were not to drink a Drop these three Days. Who is there to take notice of our Flinching? I've heard our Parson, whom you very well know, say in's Pulpit, That he who seeks Danger, perisheth therein. And there­fore we shou'd not tempt Heaven, by going a­bout a thing that we cannot compass but by a Miracle. Is't not enough, think you, that it has preserv'd you from being toss'd in a Blanket, as I was, and made you come off safe and sound from among so many Gobblins that went with the dead Man? If all this won't work upon that hard Heart of yours, do but think of me, and rest your self assur'd, that when once you've left your poor Sancho, he'll be ready to give up the Ghost for very Fear, to the next that will come for't: I left my House and Home, my Wife, Children, and all to follow you, hoping to be the better for't, and not the worse; but as Covetousness breaks the Jack, so has it broke Me and my Hopes; for while I thought my self Cock-sure of that unlucky and accursed Island, which you so often promis'd me, you mean to drop me here in a strange Place. Dear Master, don't be so hard hearted; and if you won't be [Page 197] persuaded not to meddle with this ungracious Adventure, do but put it off till you can see: 'Tis but three Hours to Day-light; for, accord­ing to my little Skill, the Muzzle of the lesser Bear is just over our Heads. How can'st thou see the Muzzle of the Bear, ask'd Don Quixote? There's not a Star to be seen in the Sky? That's true, quoth Sancho; but Fear is sharp-sighted, and can see things under Ground, and much more in the Skies. Let Day come or not come, 'tis all one to me, cry'd the Champion; it shall never be recorded of Don Quixote, that either Tears or Entreaties cou'd make him neglect the Duty of a Knight. Then, Sancho, say no more; for Heaven that has inspir'd me with a Resolu­tion of attempting this dreadful Adventure, will certainly take Care of me and thee: Come quickly, girt my Steed, and stay here for me; for you will shortly hear of me again, either alive or dead.

Sancho finding his Master obstinate, and nei­ther to be mov'd by Tears nor good Advice, re­solv'd to try a Trick of Policy to keep him there till Day-light: And accordingly, while he pre­tended to fasten the Girts, he slily ty'd Rozi­nante's hinder Legs with his Asse's Halter, without being so much as suspected: So that when Don Quixote thought to have mov'd forwards, he found his Horse wou'd not go a step without leaping, tho' he spurr'd him on smartly. Sancho perceiving his Plot took; look you, Sir, quoth he, Heaven's o' my side, and won't let Rozinante budge a foot forwards; and now if you'll still be spurring him, I dare Pawn my Life 'twill be but striving against the Stream; or, as the Say­ing is, But kicking against the Pricks. Don [Page 198] Quixote fretted, and chased, and rav'd, and was in a desperate Fury to find his Horse so Stubborn; but at last observing that the more he spurr'd and gall'd his Sides, the more resty he prov'd, tho' unwilling to go, he resolv'd to have Patience till 'twas Light. Well, said he, since Rozinante will not leave this Place, I must tarry in't till the Dawn, tho' its slowness will cost me some Sighs. You shall not need to Sigh nor be Me­lencholy, quoth Sancho, for I'll undertake to tell you Stories till it be Day, unless your Worship had rather get off of your Horse, and take a Nap upon the green Grass, as Knights-Errant are wont, that you may be the fresher and the beterrable in the Morning to go thro' that monstrous Adventure that waits for you. What do'st thou mean with this Alighting and Sleeping, reply'd Don Quixote? Think'st thou I am one of those Carpet-Knights that abandon themselves to Sleep and lazy Ease, when Danger is at hand? No, Sleep thou, that a'rt Born to Sleep; or do what thou wilt. As for my self, I know what I have to do. Good Sir, quoth Sancho, don't put your self into a Passion, I meant no such Thing not I: Evil be to them that Evil think. Saying this, he clapt one of his Hands upon the Pummel of Rozinante's Sadle, and tother upon the Crupper, and thus he stood embracing his Master's left Thigh, not daring to budge an Inch, for fear of the Blows that dinn'd continually in his Ears. Don Quixote then thought fit to claim his Pro­mise, and desir'd him to tell some of his Stories to help to pass away the Time. Sir, qouth Sancho, I'm wofully frighted; and have no Heart to tell Stories, however I'll do my best, and now I think on't there's one come into my Head, [Page 199] which if I can but hit on't right, and nothing happen to put me out, is the best Story you ever heard in your Life: Therefore listen, for I'm go­ing to begin. In the Days of Yore, when it was as it was, Good betide us all, and Evil to him that Evil seeks. And here, Sir, you are to take notice that they of old did not begin their Tales with ordinary Discourse; for't was a say­ing of a wise Man whom they call'd Cato Zon­sorin, that said, Evil to him that Evil seeks, which is as Pat for your purpose, as a Pudding for a Fryer's Mouth; that you may neither meddle nor make, nor seek Evil and Mischief for the nonce, but rather get out of harm's way, for no Body forces us to run into the Mouth of all the Devils in Hell that wait for us yonder, Go on with thy Story, Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote, and leave the rest to my Discretion. I say then, quoth Sancho, that in a Country-Town in Estra­madura, there liv'd a certain Shepherd, Goatherd I should have said. Which Goatherd, as the Story has it, was call'd Lope Ruyz, and this Lope Ruyz was in Love with a Sheperdess, whose name was Toralva, the which Shepherdess whose name was Toralva, was the Daughter of a wealthy Grazier, and this Grazier— If thou goest on at this rate, cry'd Don Quixote, and mak'st so many needless Repetitions, thou'lt not have told thy Story these two Days. Prethee tell it con­cisely, and like a Man of Sense, or let it alone. I tell it you, quoth Sancho, as all Stories are told in our Country, and I can't for the Blood of me tell it any other way, nor is it fit I should alter the Custom. Why then, tell it how thou wilt, reply'd Don Quixote, since my ill Fortune forces me to stay and hear thee. Well then, [Page 200] Dear Sir of my Soul, quoth Sancho, as I was say­ing, this same Shepherd, Goatherd I shou'd have said, was woundily in Love with that same Shep­herdess Toralva, who was a well truss'd, round, crummy, strapping Wench, Coy and Froppish, and somewhat like a Man, for she had a kind of a Beard on her upper Lip. Methinks I see her now standing before me. Then I suppose thou knewst her, said Don Quixote. Not I answer'd Sancho: I nere sat Eyes on her in my born Days: But he that told me the Story, said, this was so true, that I might vouch it for a real Truth, and even swear I had seen it all my self. Well,— but as you know, Days go and come, and Time and Straw make Medlars ripe, so it happen'd that after several Days coming and going, the Devil who seldom lies Dead in a Ditch, but will have a Finger in every Pye, so brought it about, that the Shepherd fell out with his Sweet-heart, insomuch that the Love he bore her turn'd into Dudgeon and ill Will. And the cause was, by report of some mischievous Tale-Carriers that bare no good Will to either Party, for that the Shepherd thought her no better than she shou'd be; and loose i' the Hilt and free of her Hips. Thereupon being grievous in the Dumps about it, and now bitterly hating her, he e'en resolv'd to leave that Country to get out of her Sight: For now, as every Dog has his Day, the Wench perceiving he came no longer a Suitering to her, but rather toss'd his Nose at her, and shunn'd her, she began to Love him and doat upon him like any thing, haunting and following him up and down like a Tanthony-Pig. That's the Nature of Women, cry'd Don Quixote, not to Love when we Love 'em, and to Love when we Love 'em [Page 201] not. But go on— The Shepherd then gave her the slip, continu'd Sancho, and driving his Goats before him, went trudging thro' Estramadura, in his way to Portugal. But Toralva having a long Nose smelt his Design, and then what does she do, think ye, but come after him bare-Foot and bare-Leg'd, with a Pilgrim's Staff in her Hand, and a Wallet at her Back, wherein they say she carried a piece of a Looking-Glass, half a Comb, a broken Pot with Paint; and I don't know what other Trinkum Trankums to prink her self up. But let her carry what she wou'd, 'tis no Bread and Butter of mine, the short and the long is, That they say the Shepherd with his Goats, got at last to the River Guadiana, which happen'd to be overflow'd at that Time, and what's worse than ill Luck, there was neither Boat nor Bark to Ferry him over; which vex'd him the more because he perceiv'd Toralva at his Heels, and he fear'd to be teiz'd and plagu'd with her Weeping and Wailing, At last he spy'd a Fisher-Man in a little Boat, but so little it was, that it wou'd carry but one Man and one Goat at a Time. Well, for all that, he call'd to the Fisher-Man, and agreed with him to carry him and his three hundred Goats over the Water. The Bargain being struck, the Fisher-Man came with his Boat and carried over one Goat. Then he row'd back and fetch'd another Goat, and after that another Goat. Pray Sir, quoth Sancho, besure you keep a good Account how many Goats the Fisher-Man Ferries over, for if you happen but to miss one, my Tale's at an end, and the Devil a Word more I have to say. Well then, where abouts was I?— Ho! I ha't— Now the landing Place on the other side was very Muddy and Slippery, which made the [Page 202] Fisher-Man be a long while in going and coming. Yet for all that, he took Heart o' Grace, and made shift to carry over one Goat, then another, and then another. Come, cry'd Don Quixote, we'll suppose he has landed 'em all on the other side of the River; for as thou go'st One by One we shall not have done these twelve Months. Pray, let me go on my own way, quoth Sancho: How many Goats are got over already? Nay, how the Devil can I tell, reply'd Don Quixote. There it is, quoth Sancho! Did not I bid you keep 'Count? On my Word the Tale's at an end, and now you may go whistle for the rest. Ridiculous, cry'd Don Quixote: Prethee is there no going on with the Story unless I know exactly how many Goats are wafted over? No, marry, is there not, quoth Sancho: For as soon as you answer'd, that you cou'd not tell, the rest of the Story quite and clean slipt out of my Head; and Troth 'tis a thousand Pities, for 'twas a special one. So then, cry'd Don Quixote, the Story's ended. Ay marry is it, quoth Sancho; 'tis no more to be fetch'd to Life than my Dead Mother. Upon my Honour, cry'd Don Quixote, a most extraordinary Story, and told and concluded in as extraord nary a manner. 'Tis a None such I dare engage; tho' truly I expected no less from a Man of such uncommon Parts. Alas! poor Sancho, I am affraid this dreadful Noise has turn'd thy Brain: That may well be, quoth Sancho, but as for my Story I'm sure there's nothing more to be said; for where you lose the Account of the Goats there it ends. Let it be so, reply'd Don Quixote, but now let's try whether Rozinante be in Humour to March; with that he gave Rozi­nante two Spurs, and the high mettl'd Jade an­swer'd [Page 203] with one Bound, and then stood stock still, not having the command of his hind Legs.

Much about this Time, whether it were the Coolness of the Night, or that Sancho had eaten some loosening Food at Supper, or which seems more probable, that Nature by a regular Impulse gave him notice of her Desire to perform a cer­tain Function that follows the third Concoction, it seems, honest Sancho found himself urg'd to do that which no body cou'd do for him: But such were his Fears that he durst not for his Life stir the breadth of a Straw from his Master; yet to think of bearing the intolerable Load that press'd him so, was to him as great an impossibility: In this perplexing Exigency, with leave be it spoken) he cou'd find no other Expedient but to take his right Hand from the Crupper of the Saddle, and softly untying his Breeches, let 'em drop down to his Heels, having done this, he as silently took up his Shirt, and expos'd his Po­steriors, which were none of the least, to the open Air. But the main Point was how to ease himself of this terrible Burthen, without making a Noise. To which purpose he clutch'd his Teeth close, scru'd up his Face, shrunk up his Shoulders, and held his Breath as much as possi­ble. Yet see what Misfortunes attend the best projected Undertakings. When he had almost compass'd his Design, he cou'd not hinder an obstreperous sound very different from those that caus'd his Fear from unluckily bursting out. Hark! cry'd Don Quixote, who hear'd it, what Noise is that, Sancho? Some new Adventure, I'll warrant you, quoth Sancho, for ill Luck, you know, seldom comes alone. Having pass'd off the Thing thus, he e'en ventur'd t'other Strain, [Page 204] and did it so cleverly, that, without the least Re­port or Whisper, his Business was done effectu­ally, to the unspeakable Ease of his Body and Mind.

But Don Quixote having the Sense of Smel­ling as perfect as that of Hearing, and Sancho standing so very near or rather join'd to him, certain Fumes that ascended perpendicularly be­gan to regale his Nostrils with a Smell not so grateful as Amber. No sooner the unwelcome Steams disturb'd him but having Recourse to the common Remedy, he stop'd his Nose, and then with a snaffling Voice, Sancho, said he, thou art certainly in great Bodily Fear. So I am, quoth Sancho; but what makes your Wor­ship perceive it now more than you did before? Because, reply'd Don Quixote, thou smellest now more unsavorily than thou didst before. Hoh, that may be, quoth Sancho. But whose Fault's that? You may e'en thank your self for't. Why do you lead me a wild Goose-chace, and bring me at such unseasonable Hours to such dangerous Places? You know I a'n't us'd to't. Prethee, said Don Quixote, still holding his Nose, get thee three or four Steps from me; and for the future take more Care, and know your Distance; for I find, thou thinkst my Familiarity with thee may priviledge thee to want Respect. I war­rant, quoth Sancho, you think I have been do [...]ng something I should not have done. Come, say no more, cry'd Don Quixote, the more thou'st stir, the worse 'twill be.

This Discourse, such as it was, served them to pass away the Night; and now Sancho seeing the Morning arise thought it time to unty Rozinante's Feet, and do up his Breeches; and he did both [Page 205] with so much Caution that his Master suspected nothing. As for Rozinante he no sooner felt him­self at Liberty, but he seemed to express his Joy by pawing the Ground; for, with his Leave be it spoken, he was a Stranger to Curvetting and Prancing. Don Quixote also took it as a good Omen that his Steed was now ready to move, and believed it was a Signal given him by kind Fortune, to animate him to give Birth to the ap­proaching Adventure.

Now had Aurora display'd her rosy Mantle over the blushing Skies, and dark Night with­drawn her Sable Veil; all Objects stood con­fest to human Eyes, and Don Quixote could now perceive he was under some tall Chesnut-Trees, whose thick spreading Boughs diffus'd an awful Gloom around the Place, but he could not yet discover whence proceeded the dismal Sound of those incessant Strokes. Therefore, being re­solv'd to find it out, once more he took his Leave of Sancho, with the same Injunctions as before; adding withal, that he should not trouble him­self about the Recompence of his Services, for he had taken Care of that in his Will, which he had providently made before he left home; but if he came off victorious from this Adventure, he might most certainly expect to be gratify'd with the Promised Island. Sancho could not for­bear blubbering again, to hear these tender Ex­pressions of his Master, and resolved not to leave him till he had finished this Enterprize. And from that deep Concern, and this nobler Reso­lution to attend him, the Author of this History infers, that the Squire was something of a Gen­tleman by Descent, or at least the Offspring of the old Christians. Nor did his good Nature [Page 206] fail to move his Master, more than he was wil­ling to shew it at a Time when it behov'd him to shake off all softer Thoughts. For now he rode towards the Place whence the Noise of the Blows and the Water seem'd to come, while Sancho trudg'd after him, leading by the Halter the inseparable Companion of his good and bad Fortune.

After they had gone a pretty way under a pleasing Covert of Chesnut-Trees, they came in­to a Meadow adjoining to certain Rocks, from whose Top there was a great Fall of Waters. At the Foot of those Rocks they discover'd certain old ill-contriv'd Buildings, that rather look'd like Ruins than inhabited Houses; and they per­ceiv'd that the terrifying Noise of the Blows which yet continued issu'd out of that Place. When they came nearer, even patient Rozinante himself started at the dreadful Sound; but being heartened and pacified by his Master, he was at last prevail'd with to draw nearer and nearer with wary Steps, the Knight recommending himself all the way most devoutly to his Dulci­nea, and now and then also to Heaven in short Ejaculations. As for Sancho he stuck close to his Master, peeping all the way through R [...]zinante's Legs, to see if he could perceive what he dread­ed to find out. When, a little further at the doubling of the Point of a Rock, they pla [...]nly discover'd (kind Reader, do not take it amiss) six huge Fulling-Mill-Hammers, which inter­changeably thumping several pieces of Cloths, made the terrible Noise that caus'd all Don Quixote's Anxieties, and Sancho's Tribulation that Night.

[Page 207] Don Quixote was struck dumb at this unex­pected Sight, and was ready to drop from his Horse with Shame and Confusion. Sancho star'd upon him, and saw him hang down his Head, with a desponding dejected Countenance, like a Man quite dispirited with this cursed Disappoint­ment. At the same Time he look'd upon San­cho, and seeing by his Eyes and his Cheeks, swell'd with Laughter, that he was ready to burst, he could not forbear laughing himself, in spight of all his Vexation. So that Sancho seeing his Master begin, immediately gave a Loose to his Mirth, and broke out into such a Fit of Laughing, that he was forc'd to hold his Sides with both his Knuckles for fear of bursting his aking Paunch. Four times he ceas'd, and four times renew'd his obstreperous Laughing; which Sauciness Don Quixote began to resent with great Indignation; and the more when Sancho in a jeering Tone presum'd to ridicule him with his own Words, repeating part of the vain Speech he made when first they heard the Noise; Know, Sancho, I was born in this Iron Age to restore the Age of Gold. I am the Man for whom Heaven has reserv'd the most dangerous and glorious Adven­tures, &c. Thus he went on, till his Master, dreadfully inrag'd at his Insolence, hit him two such Blows on the Shoulders with his Lance, that had they fallen upon his Head they had sav'd Don Quixote the trouble of paying him his Wa­ges, whatever he must have done to his Heirs. Thereupon Sancho, finding his Jest turn'd to Earnest, begg'd Pardon with all Submission: Mercy, good your Worship, cry'd he, spare my Bones I beseech you! I meant no harm, I did but joke a little. And because you joke, I do [Page 208] not, cry'd Don Quixote. Come hither, good Mr. Jester, you who pretend to rally, tell me, Had this been a dangerous Adventure, as well as it proves only a false Alarm, have I not shewn Resolution enough to undertake and finish it? Am I, who am a Knight, bound to know the meaning of every Mechanick Noise, and distin­guish between Sound and Sound? Besides, it might happen, as really it is, that I had never seen a Fulling-Mill before, tho' thou, like a base Scoundrel as thou art, wert born and brought up among such mean Implements of Drudgery. But let the six Fulling-Maces be transform'd into so many Giants, then turn 'em in my Face one by one, or all together; and if I do nor lay 'em all at my Feet with their Heels upwards, then I'll give thee Leave to exercise thy ill-bred Raillery as much as thou pleasest.

Good your Worship, quoth Sancho, talk no more on't, I beseech you; I confess I carry'd the Jest too far. But now all's hush'd and well, pray tell me in sober Sadness as you hope to speed in all Adventures, and come off safe and sound as from this, don't you think but that the Fright we were in, I mean that I was in, would be a good Subject for People to make sport with? I grant it, answer'd Don Quixote, but I would not have it told; for all People are not so discreet as to place Things or look upon 'em in the Position in which they should be consider'd. I'll say that for you, quoth Sancho, you've shewn you understand how to place Things in their right Posit [...]on, when aiming at my Head you hit my Shoulders, had not I duck'd a little o' one side I had been in a fine Condition. But let that pass, 'twill wear out in the Bucking. I've [Page 209] heard my Gran'am say, That Man loves thee well, who makes thee to weep. Good Masters may be hasty sometimes with a Servant; but pre­sently after a hard Word or two they commonly give him a pair of cast Breeches. What they give after a Basting, Heav'n knows; all I can tell is that Knights-Errant after Bastinadoes, give you some cast Island, or some old-fashion'd King­dom upon the main Land.

Fortune, said Don Quixote, will perhaps order ev'ry thing thou hast said to come to pass; there­fore, Sancho, I prithee think no more of my Se­verity; thou knowst a Man cannot always com­mand the first Impulse of his Passions. On the other side, let me advise thee not to be so saucy for the future; and not to assume that strange Familiarity with me which is so unbecoming in a Servant. I protest, in such a vast number of Books of Knight-Errantry as I have read, I never found that any Squire was ever allow'd so great a Freedom of Speech with his Master as thou takest with me; and truly I look upon it to be a great Fault in us both; in thee for disrespect­ing me, and in me for not making my self be more respected. Gandalin, Amadis de Gaule's Squire, tho' he was Earl of the Firm Island, yet he never spoke to his Master, but with Cap in Hand, his Head bow'd and his Body half bent, after the Turkish manner. But what shall we say of Gasabel, Don Galaor's Squire, who was such a strict observer of Silence, that to the Honour of this affected Taciturnity, he gave the Author oc­casion to mention his Name but once in that vo­luminous authentick History. From all this Sancho, I would have thee make this Observation, That there ought to be a Distance kept between [Page 210] the Master and the Man, the Knight and the Squire. Therefore once more I tell thee, let's live together for the future more according to the due Decorum of our respective Degrees, without giving one another any further Vexation on this Account; for, after all, 'twill always be the worse for you on whatsoever Occasion we hap­pen to disagree. As for the Rewards I promised you, they will come in due Time; and should you be disappointed that way, you have your Salary to trust to, as I have told you.

You say very well, quoth Sancho; but now Sir, suppose no Rewards should come, and I should be forc'd to stick to my Wages, I'd fain know how much a Squire-Errant us'd to earn in the days of yore? Did they go by the Month or by the Day like our Labourers? I don't think, reply'd Don Quixote, they ever went by the Hire, but rather that they trusted to their Master's Ge­nerosity. And if I have assign'd thee Wages in my Will, which I left seal'd up at home, 'twas only to prevent the worst; because I do not know yet what Success I may have in Chivalry in these miserable Times; and I would not have my Soul suffer in the other World for such a trifling Matter: For there is no state of Life so subject to Dangers as that of a Knight-Errant. Like enough, quoth Sancho, when meerly the Noise of the Hammers of a Fulling-Mill is able to trouble and disturb the Heart of such a valiant Knight as your Worship. But you may be sure I'll not hereafter so much as offer to open my Lips to jibe or joke at your Doings, but always stand in awe of you, and honour you as my Lord and Master. By doing so, reply'd Don Quixote, thou shalt live on the Face of the [Page 211] Earth; for next to our Parents we ought to re­spect our Masters, as if they were our Fa­thers.

CHAP. VII. Of the High and Mighty Adventure and Conquest of Mambrino's Helmet; with other Events relating to our in­vincible Knight.

AT the same time it began to Rain, and Sancho would fain have taken Shelter in the Fulling-Mills. But Don Quixote had conceiv'd such an Antipathy against 'em for the Shame they had put upon him, that he would by no means be prevail'd with to go in; and turn­ing to the Right Hand he struck into a High-way, where they had not gone far before he discover'd a Horseman, who wore upon his Head some­thing that glitter'd like Gold. The Knight had no sooner spy'd him, but turning to his Squire, Sancho, cry'd he, I believe there's no Proverb but what is true; they are all so many Sen­tences and Maxims drawn from Experience, the Universal Mother of Sciences: for Instance that Saying, That where one Door shuts, another opens. Thus Fortune that last N ght deceiv'd us with the false Project of an Adventure, this Morning offers us a real one to make us amends: And such an Adventure, Sancho, that if I do not gloriously succeed in it, I shall have now no pre­tence [Page 212] to an Excuse; no Darkness, no unknown Sounds to impute my Disappointment to. In short, in all probability, yonder comes the Man who wears on his Head Mambrino's Helmet, and thou know'st the Vow I have made. Good Sir, quoth Sancho, mind what you say, and take heed what you do; for I wou'd willingly keep my Carcass and the Case of my Understanding from being pounded, mash'd, and crush'd with Ful­ling-Hammers. Hell take thee, Blockhead, cry'd Don Quixote! Is there no difference between a Helmet and a Fulling-Mill? I don't know, quoth Sancho, but I'm sure were I suffer'd to speak my Mind now, as I was wont, mayhaps I wou'd give you such main Reasons, that you your self shou'd see you're wide of the Matter. How can I be mistaken; thou eternal Misbeliever, cry'd Don Quixote? Do'st thou not see that Knight who comes riding up directly towards us upon a Dapple-grey Steed, with a Helmet of Gold on his Head? I see what I see, reply'd Sancho, and the Devil of any thing I can spy, but a Fel­low upon such another grey Ass as mine is, with something that glisters o' top of his Head. I tell thee, that's Mambrino's Helmit, reply'd Don Quixote; and therefore stand at a distance, and leave me to deal with him: Thou shal't see that without trifling away so much as a Moment in needless Talk, I'll finish this Adventure, and possess my self of the desir'd Helmet. I shall stand at a distance you may be sure, quoth San­cho; but I wish this mayn't prove another blew Bout, and a worse Job than the Fulling-Mills. I have warn'd you already, Fellow, said Don Quixote, not so much as to name the Fulling-Mills; dare but once more to do it, nay but [Page 213] to think on't, and I vow to—I say no more, but I'll full and pound your Dog's-ship into Jel­ly. These Threats were more than sufficient to Padlock Sancho's Lips; for he had no mind to have his Master's Vow fulfill'd at the Expence of his Bones.

Now the Truth of the Story was this: There were in that part of the Country two Villages, one of which was so little that it had not so much as a Shop in't, nor any Barber. So that the Barber of the greater Village serv'd also the smaller. And thus a Person happening to have occasion to be let Blood, and another to be Shav'd, the Barber was going thither with his Brass Bason, which he had clapt upon his Head to keep his Hat, that chanc'd to be a new one, from being spoilt by the Rain; and as the Ba­son was new scowr'd, it made a glittering show a great way off. As Sancho had well observ'd he rode upon a grey Ass, which Don Quixote as easily took for a Dapple grey Steed, as he took the Barber for a Knight, and his Brass Ba­son for a Golden Helmet, his distracted Brain easily applying ev'ry Object to his Romantic Ideas. Therefore when he saw the poor imagi­nary Knight draw near, he fix'd his Lance or Javelin to his Thigh, and without staying to hold a Parley with his thoughtless Adversary, flew at him as fiercely as Rozinante wou'd Gallop, re­solv'd to pierce him through and through; cry­ing out in the midst of his Career, Caitif, Wretch, defend thy self, or immediately surrender that which is so jus [...]ly my due. The Barber, who as he peaceably went along, saw that terrible Apparition come thund'ring upon h m at una­wares, had no other way to avoid being run [Page 214] through with the Lance, but to throw himself off from his Ass to the Ground: And then as ha­stily getting up, he took up his Heels and ran o're the Fields swift as a hunted Deer, leaving his Ass and his Bason behind him. Don Quixote find­ing himself thus Master of the Field and of the Bason: The Miscreant, cry'd he, who has left this Helmet, has shewn himself as prudent as the Bever, who finding himself hotly pursu'd by the Hunters, to save his Life, tears and cuts off with his Teeth that for which his natural Instinct tells him he was follow'd. Then he order'd Sancho to take up the Helmet. On my word, quoth San­cho, having taken it up, 'tis a special Bason, and as well worth a Piece of Eight, as a Thief is worth a Halter. With that he gave it to his Master, who presently clapt it on his Head, turning it every way to find out the Beaver or Vizor; and at last seeing it had none, doubtless, said he, the Pagan for whom this famous Helmet was first made had a Head of a prodigious size; but the worst is, that there's at least one half of it wanting. Sancho cou'd not forbear smiling to hear his Master call the Barber's Bason a Hel­met, and had not his Fear dash'd his Mirth he had certainly laugh'd out-right. What does the Fool grin at now, cry'd Don Quixote? I laugh, said he, to think what a hugeous Jolt-head he must needs have had who was the Owner of this same Helmet, that looks for all the World like a Barber's Bason. I fancy, said Don Quixote, this inchanted Helmet has fallen by some strange Accident into the hands of some Person, who not, knowing the Value of it, for the Lucre of a little Mony, finding it to be of pure Gold, melted one half, and of the other made this [Page 215] Head-Peace, which as thou say'st, has some re­semblance of a Barber's Bason. But to me, who know the Worth of it, the Metamorphosis signi­fies little; for as soon as ever I come to some Town where there's an Armorer, I will have it alter'd so much for the better, that then even the Helmet which the God of Smiths made for the God of War, shall not deserve to be compar'd with it: In the mean time I'll wear it as it is; 'tis better than nothing, and will serve at least to save part of my Head from the violent En­counter of a Stone. Ay, that i [...] will, quoth San­cho, so 'tis not hurl'd out of a Sling, as were those at the Battle between the two Armies, when they hit you [...]hat confounded Dowse o' the Chops, that bl ss'd your Worship's Cheek-Teeth, and broke the Pot about your Ears, in which you kept the blessed Drench that made me bring up my Gots. True, cry'd Don Quix­ote, there I lost my precious B [...]l [...]an [...] indeed; but I do not much r [...]pine at it, for thou knowest I have the Receipt in my Memory. So have I too, quoth Sancho, and shall have while I have Breath to draw; but if ever I make any of that Stuff, or taste it again, may I g ve up the Ghost with it: Besides I mean never to thrust my self into a bloody Fray that mi [...] endanger that sweet Corps of mine; and I [...] labour all that in me lies to hurt no Body, and let no Body hurt me. As to being toss d in a Bl [...]ket again, I've nothing to say to it; for theres to Remedy for such an enchanted Jo [...]ing but Pa [...]ence 't seems. So if it ever be my lord to be serv [...] so again, I'll e'en shrink up my Shoulders, hold my Breath, and shut my Eyes, and then happy be lucky, let the Blanket and Fortune e'en toss on to the end o' the Chapter.

[Page 216]Truly, said Don Quixote, I am affraid thou'rt no good Christan, Sancho, thou never forget'st In­juries. Let me tell thee, 'tis the part of noble and generous Spirits to pass by Trifles: Where art thou lame? Which of thy Ribs is broken? Or what part of thy Skull is bruis'd, that thou can'st never think on that Jest without Malice? For after all, 'twas nothing but a Jest, a harmless Piece of Pastime; had I look'd upon it other­wise, I had return'd to that Place before this Time, and had made more noble Mischief, in Revenge of the Abuse, than ever the incens'd Grecians did at Troy, for the Detension of their Helen; that fam'd Beauty of the ancient World, who however had she liv'd in our Age, or had my Dulcinea adorn'd her's, wou'd have found her Charms out-rivall'd by my Cavelier Mi­stresse's Perfections. And saying this, he heav'd up a deep Sigh. Well then, quoth Sancho, I'll not rip up old Sores: Let it go for a Jest, since there's no revenging it in Earnest. But what shall we do with this Dapple-grey Steed, that's so like an Ass? You see that some poor Devil-Errant has left it to shift for it self, poor Thing; and by his haste to rub off, I don't think he means to come back for it, and by my Beard, the grey Beast is a special one. 'Tis not my Custom, reply'd Don Quixote, to plun­der those whom I over-come; nor is it usual a­mong us Knights, for the Victor to take the Horse of his vanquish'd Enemy, and let him go a Foot, unless his own Steed be kill'd or dis­abled in the Combate. Therefore Sancho, leave the Horse or the Ass, whatever thou pleasest to call it; the Owner will be sure to come for't, as soon as he'll see us gone. I've a huge mind [Page 217] to take him along with us, quoth Sancho, or at least to exchange him for my own which is not so good. What, are the Laws of Knight-Erran­try so strict, that a Man must not exchange one Ass for another? At least, I hope they'll give me leave to swop one Harness for another? Truly, Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, I am not so very certain as to this last Particular; and therefore, till I am better inform'd, I give thee leave to ex­change the Furniture, if thou hast absolutely oc­casion for't. I've so much occasion for't, quoth Sancho, that tho' 'twere for my own very self I cou'd not need it more. So without any more ado, being authoriz'd by his Master's leave, he made Mutatio Caprarum, and his own Ass as fine, as if it had had a hundred Holy-day-Cloaths on its Back. This done, they Breakfasted upon what they left at Supper, having quench'd their Thirst at the Stream that turn'd the Fulling-Mills, towards which Don Quixote took care not to cast an Eye, for he abominated the very Thoughts of 'em. Thus their Spleen being eas'd, their choleric and melancholic Humors assuag'd, up they got again, and never minding their Way, they were all guided by Rozinante's Discretion, the Depository of his Master's Will, and also of the Ass's, that kindly and sociably always fol­low'd his Steps where-ever he went. Their Guide soon brought 'em again into the high Road, where they kept on a slow Pace, not caring which way they went.

As they jogg'd on thus, quoth Sancho to his Master, Pray, Sir, will you give me leave to talk to you a little? For since you have laid that bitter Command upon me, to hold my Tongue, I've had four or five quaint Conceits, that have rotted in my Gizard; and now I've [Page 218] another at my Tongue's end, that I would not for any thing should miscarry. Say it, cry'd Don Quixote, but be short; for no Discourse can please, when too long.

Well then, quoth Sancho, I've been thinking to my self of late how little is to be got by hunting up and down these barren Woods and strange Places, where tho' you compass the hard­est and most dangerous Jobs of Knight-Errantry, yet no living Soul sees it, or hears on't, and so 'tis every whit as good as lost, and therefore me­thinks 'twere better (with Submission to your Worship's better Judgment be it spoken) that we e'en went to serve some Emperor or other great Prince that's at War. For there you might show how stout, and how wondrous strong and wise you be; which being perceiv'd by the Lord we shall serve, he must needs reward us, every one according to his Deserts, and there you'll not want a learned Scholar to set down all your high Deeds, that they may never be forgotten: As for mine I say nothing, seeing they are not to be nam'd the same day with your Worship's; and yet I dare avouch that if any Notice be taken in Knight-Errantry of the Feats of Squires, mine will be sure to come in for a Share. Truly, Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, there is some Rea­son in what thou say'st. But first of all, 'tis re­quisite that a Knight-Errant should spend some Time in various Parts of the World as a Proba­tioner in quest of Adventures, that by atchieving some extraordinary Exploits, his Renown may diffuse it self through neighbouring Climes and distant Nations. So when he goes to the Court of some great Monarch, his Fame flying before him as his Harbinger, secures him such a Re­ception, that the Knight has scarce reach'd the [Page 219] Gates of the Metropolis of the Kingdom, when he finds himself attended and surrounded by ad­miring Crouds, pointing and crying out, There rides the Knight of the Sun, or of the Serpent, or whatever other Title the Knight takes upon him. That's he, they'll cry, who vanquish'd in single Combat the huge Giant Brocabruno, sir­nam'd Of the Invincible Strength. This is he that freed the great Sophy of Persia from the Enchantment that had kept him confin'd for al­most nine hundred Years together. Thus as they relate his Atchievements with loud Acclamations, the spreading Rumour at last reaches the King's Palace, and the Monarch being desirous to be inform'd with his own Eyes will not fail to look out of his Window. As soon as he sees the Knight, knowing him by his Arms, or the Devise on his Shield, he'll be oblig'd to say to his At­tendants, My Lords and Gentlemen, haste, all of you, as many as are Knights, go and receive the Flower of Chivalry that's coming to our Court. At the King's Command away they all run to introduce him, the King himself meets him half way on the Stairs, where he embraces his valorous Guest, and kisses his Cheek. Then taking him by the Hand he leads him directly to the Queen's Apartment; where the Knight finds her attended by the Princess her Daughter, who ought to be one of the most beautiful and most accomplish'd Damsels in the whole compass of the Universe. At the same time Fate will so dis­pose every Thing that the Knight shall gaze on the Princess and the Princess on the Knight, and each shall admire one another as Persons rather Angelical than Humane; and then by an unac­countable Charm they shall both find themselves caught and entangled in the inextricable N [...]t of [Page 220] Love, and wondrously perplex'd for want of an opportunity to discover their amorous Anguish to one another.

After this doubtless the Knight is conducted by the King to one of the richest Appartments in the Palace, where having taken off his Ar­mour, they will bring him a rich Scarlet Vest­ment lin'd with Ermines; and if he look'd so graceful cas'd in Steel, how lovely will he ap­pear in all the heightning Ornaments of Courti­ers? Night being come, he shall sup with the King, the Queen, and the Princess, and shall all the while be Feasting his Eyes with the Sight of his Charmer, yet so as no Body shall perceive it; and she will repay him his Glances with as much Discretion; for as I have said, she is a most ac­complish'd Person. After Supper, a surprising Scene is unexpectedly to appear: Enter first an ill-favour'd little Dwarf, and after him a fair Damsel between two Giants, with the Offer of a certain Adventure so contriv'd by an ancient Ne­gromancer, and so difficult to be perform'd, that he who shall undertake and end it with Suc­cess, shall be esteem'd the best Knight in the World. Presently 'tis the King's Pleasure that all his Courtiers should attempt it; which they do, but all of 'em unsuccessfully, for the Honour is reserv'd for the valorous Stranger, who effects that with Ease which the rest essay'd in vain. And then the Princess shall be overjoy'd, and esteem herself the most happy Creature in the World, for having bestow'd her Affections on so deserving an Object. Now by the happy ap­pointment of Fate, this King, or this Emperor is at War with one of his Neighbours as power­ful as himself; and the Knight being inform'd of this, after he has been some few Days at Court, [Page 221] he offers the King his Service, which is accepted with Joy, and the Knight courteously kisses the King's Hands in Acknowledgment of so great a Favour. That Night the Lover takes his Leave of the Princess at the Iron-grate before her Chamber-Window looking into the Garden, where he and she have already had several Inter­views by means of the Princess's Confident, a Damsel who carries on the Intriegue between 'em. The Knight sighs, the Princess swoons, the Dam­sel runs for cold Water to bring her to Life a­gain, very uneasy also because the Morning-Light approaches, and she wou'd not have them discovered, lest it should reflect on her Lady's Honour. At last the Princess revives, and gives the Knight her lovely Hand to kiss, which he does a thousand and a thousand Times, bathing it all the while with his Tears. Then they agree how to transmit their Though [...]s with Se­crecy to each other, by a mutual Intercourse of Letters during this fatal absence. The Princess prays him to return with all the speed of a Lover; the Knight promises it with repeated Vows, and a thousand kind Protestations. At last, the fatal moment being come that must tear him from all he loves and from his very self, he seals once more his Leave on her soft, snowy Hand, almost breathing out his Soul, which mounts to his Lips, and even would leave its Body to dwell there, and then he is hurried away by the fearful Confident.

After this cruel Separation, he retires to his Chamber, throws himself on his Bed, but Grief will not suffer Sleep to close his Eyes: Then rising with the Sun, he goes to take his Leave of the King, and of the Queen; he desires to pay his Complement of Leave to the Princess, but [Page 222] he is told, she is indisposed; and as he has rea­son to believe that his departing is the Cause of her Disorder, he is so griev'd at the News, that he is ready to betray the Secret of his Heart, which the Princess's Confident observing, she goes and acquaints her with it, and finds the lovely Mourner bath'd in Tears, who tells her, that the greatest Affliction of her Soul, is, her not know­ing whether her charming Knight be of Royal Blood: But the Damsel pacifies her, assuring her that so much Valour, so much Gallantry, and such noble Qualifications were unquestiona­bly deriv'd from an Illustrious and Royal Ori­ginal. This comforts the afflicted Fair, who does all she can to compose her Looks, lest the King or the Queen shou'd suspect the Cause of their Alteration; and so some Days after, she appears in Publick as before.

And now the Knight, having been absent for some Time, meets, fights and overcomes the King's Enemies, takes I don't know how many Cities, wins I don't know how many Battles, re­turns to Court, and appears before his Mistress Jaden with Honour. He Visits her privately as before, and they agree, that he shall demand her of the King her Father in Marriage, as the Re­ward of all his Services. But the King will not grant his Suit, as being unacquainted with his Birth: However, whether it be that the Princess suffers her self to be privately carried away, or that some other Means are us'd, the Knight Marries her, and in a little Time the King is very well pleased with the Match, for now the Knight appears to be the Son of a mighty King of I can't tell you what Country, for I think 'tis not in the Map. Sometime after, the Father dies, the Princess is Heiress, and thus [Page 223] in a Trice our Knight comes to be King. Hav­ing thus compleated his Happiness, his next Thoughts are to gratify his Squire, and all those who have been instrumental in his advancement to the Throne: Thus he marries his Squire to one of the Princess's Damsels, and most probably to her Favorite who had been familiar to their Amours, and who is Daughter to one of the most considerable Dukes in the Kingdom.

That's what I've been looking for all this while, quoth Sancho: Give me but that, and let the World rub; there I'll stick. For every Tit­tle o' this will come to pass, and be your Wor­ship's Case as sure as a Gun, if you'll but take upon ye that same Nick-name of the Knight of the Woful Countenance. Most certainly, Sancho, replied Don Quixote; for by the same Steps, and in that very manner, Knights-Errant have al­ways proceeded to ascend to the Throne. Therefore our chief Business is to find out some great Potentate either among the Christians or the Pagans, that is at War with his Neighbours, and has a fair Daughter. But we shall have Time enough to enquire after that; for, as I have told thee, we must first purchase Fame in other Places, before we presume to go to Court. Another Thing makes me more uneasy; Sup­pose we have found out a King and a Princess, and I have fill'd the World with the Fame of my unparallell'd Atchievements, what hopes can I have of ever being discover'd to be of Royal Blood, tho' it were but second Cousin to an Em­peror? For 'tis not to be expected that the King will ever consent that I shall wed his Daughter, till I have made this out by Authentick Proofs, tho' my Service deserve it never so much. And thus for want of a Punctilio, I am in danger of [Page 224] losing what my Valour so justly merits. 'Tis true indeed I am a Gentleman, and of a noted ancient Family, nay, perhaps the learned Histo­riographer who is to write the History of my Life, will so improve and beautify my Genea­logy, that he will find me to be the fifth or sixth at least in Descent from a King. For, Sancho, there are two sorts of Originals in the World. Some, who sprung from mighty Kings and Princes, by little and little have been so lessen'd and obscur'd, that the Estates and Titles of the following Generations have dwindled to nothing, and ended in a Point like a Pyramid. Others, who from mean and low Beginnings still rise and rise, till at last they are rais'd to the very Top of Human Greatness. So vast the difference is, That those who were Something are now No­thing, and those that were Nothing, are now Something; and therefore who knows but that I may be one of those whose Original is so illu­strious; which being handsomly made out, after due Examination, ought undoubtedly to satisfy the King my Father-in-Law: But even supposing he were still refractory, the Princess is to be so desperately in Love with me, that she will marry me without his Consent, tho' I were the Son of a the meanest Plebeian; and if her tender Honour scruples to bless me against her Father's Will, then it may not be amiss to put a pleasing Con­straint upon her, by conveying her by Force out of the Reach of her Father, to whose Persecutions either Time or Death will be sure to put a Period.

Ay, quoth Sancho, your rakehelly Fellows have a Saying that's pat to your purpose, Ne'er cringe nor creep for what you by force may reap: Tho' I think 'twere better said, The Leap of a Shrub is worth more than good Mens Prayers. No more to be said, if [Page 225] the King your Father-in-Law won't let you have his Daughter by fair means, ne'er stand Shall I, Shall I, but fairly and squarely run away with her. All the Mischief that I fear is only, that while you're making your Peace with him, and waiting after a dead Man's Shooes, as the Saying is, the poor Dog of a Squire is like to go long bare-foot, and may go hang himself for any good you'll be able to do him, unless the Damsel Go between, who's to be his Wife, run away too with the Princess, and he solace himself with her, till a better time comes; for I don't see but that the Knight may clap up the Match between us without any more ado. That's most certain, answer'd Don Quixote. Why then, quoth Sancho, happy be lucky, over Shooes over Boots; let's e'en take our Chance, and let the World rub. May Fortune crown our Wishes, cry'd Don Quixote, and let him be a Wretch who thinks himself one. Amen, say I, quoth San­cho; for I'm one of your old Christians, and that's enough to have me be an Earl. And more than e­nough, said Don Quixote; for tho' thou wer't not so well descended, being a King I cou'd bestow Nobility on thee, without putting thee to the trou­ble of buying it, or of doing me the least Service; and making thee an Earl, Men must call thee My Lord, tho' it grieve 'em never so much. And do you think, quoth Sancho, I wou'd become not my Equality main well? Thou should'st say Quality, said Don Quixote, and not Equality. Ev'n as you will, return'd Sancho: But, as I was saying, I should become an Earldom rarely; for I was once Beadle to a Brotherhood, and the Beadle's Gown did so become me, that every Body said I had the Presence of a Warden. Then howd you think I'll look with a Duke's Robes on my Back, all be­dawb'd with Gold and Pearl like any Foreign [Page 226] Count? I believe we shall have Folks come a 100 Leagues to see me. Thou wilt look well enough, said Don Quixote; but then thou must shave that rough bushy Beard of thine at least ev'ry other day, or People will read thy Beginning in thy Face as soon as they see thee. Why then, quoth Sancho, 'tis but keeping a Barber in my House; and if needs be, he shall trot after me where-ever I go, like a Grandee's Master of the Horse. How cam'st thou to know, said Don Quixote, that Grandees have their Masters of the Horse to ride after 'em? I'll tell you, quoth Sancho: Some years ago I happen'd to be about a Month among your Court-folks, and there I saw a little Dandiprat riding about, who, they said, was a hugeous great Lord; there was a Man a Horseback that follow'd him close where-ever he went, like a little t'anthony Pig, turning and stopping as he did, you'd have thought he had been ty'd to his Horse's Tail. With that I ask'd why that hind-man did not [...]ide by the other, but still come after him thus? And they told me he was Master of his Horses, and that the Gra [...] ­dees have always such kind of Men at their Tail; and I mark'd this so well that I ha'n't forgot it since. Thou art in the right, said Don Quixote, and thou may'st as reasonably have thy Barber at­tend thee in this manner: Customs did not come up all at once, but rather started up and were im­prov'd by Degrees; so thou mayst be the first Ea [...] that rode in state with his Barber behind him: And this may be said to justifie thy Conduct, that 'tis an Office of more Trust to shave a Man's Beard than to saddle a Horse. Well, quoth Sancho, leave the Business of the Cut beard to me, and do but take Care you be a King, and I an Earl. Never doubt it, reply'd Don Quixote; and with that look­ing about, he discover'd—what the next Chap­ter will tell you.

CHAP. VII. How Don Quixote set free many mise­rable Creatures, whom some Men were driving to a certain Place against their Wills.

CId Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian and Man­chegan Author, relates in this most grave, high sounding, Minute, soft and humo­rous History, that after this Discourse between the renown'd Don Quixote, and his Squire Sancho Panca, which we have laid down at the end of the Sixth Chapter; the Knight lifting up his Eyes, saw about twelve Men a Foot trudging in the Road, all in a row one behind another, like Beads upon a String, being link'd together by the Neck to a huge Iron Chain, and manacled besides. They were guarded by two Horsemen, arm'd with Carabines, and two Men a Foot, with Swords and Javelins. As soon as Sancho spy'd 'em, look ye, Sir, cry'd he, here's a Gang of Criminals hurried away by main Force to serve the King in the Gallies. How, reply'd Don Quixote! Is it possible that the King will force any Body? I don't say so, answer'd San­cho; I mean these are Rogues whom the Law has sentenc'd for their Misdeeds, to row in the King's Gallies. However, reply'd Don Quixote, they are forc'd, because they do not go of their own free Will. Sure enough, quoth Sancho. If it be so, said Don Quixote, they come within the Verge of my Office, which is to hinder Vio­lence and Oppression, and succour all People in Misery. Ay, Sir, quoth Sancho, but neither the King nor the Law offer any Violence to such [Page 228] wicked Wretches, they have but their Deserts. By this, the Chain drew near, and then Don Quixote, in very civil Terms, desir'd the Guards to inform him why these poor People were led along in that manner? Sir, answer'd one of the Horsemen, they are Criminals condemn'd to serve the King in his Gallies. That's all I've to say to you, and you need enquire no further. Nevertheless, Sir, reply'd Don Quixote, I have a great desire to know in few Words the Cause of their Misfortune, and I will esteem it an ex­traordinary Favour if you will let me have that Satisfaction. We've here the Copies and Cer­tificates of their several Sentences, said the other Horseman, but we can't stand to pull 'em out and read 'em now; you may draw nearer and examine 'em your self: I suppose they themselves will tell you why they were condemn'd; for they are such honest People, they are not asham'd to boast of their Rogueries. With this Permis­sion, which Don Quixote wou'd have taken of himself had they deny'd it him, he rode up to the Chain, and ask'd the first, For what Crime he was in th [...]se miserable Circumstances? The Gally-Slave answer'd him, That 'twas for being in Love. What, only for being in Love, cry'd Don Quixote! Were all those that are in Love to be thus us'd, I my self might have been long since in the Gallies. Ay, but reply'd the Slave, my Love was not of that sort which you con­jecture: I was so desperately in Love with a Basket of Linnen, and embrac'd it so close, that had not the Judge taken it from me by Force, I wou'd not have parted with it willingly. In short, I was taken in the Fact, and so there was no need to put me to the Rack, 'twas prov'd so plain upon me. So I was committed, try'd, [Page 229] condemn'd, had the gentle Lash; and besides that, was sent for three Years to be an Element-Dasher, and there's an end of the Business. An Element-Dasher, cry'd Don Quixote, what do you mean by that? A Gally-Slave, answer'd the Criminal, who was a young Fellow, about four and twenty Years old, and said he was born at Piedra Hita.

Then Don Quixote examin'd the second, but he was so sad and desponding, that he wou'd make no answer; however, the first Rogue in­form'd the Knight of his Affairs: Sir, said he, this Canary Bird keeps us Company for having sung too much. Is't possible, cry'd Don Quixote! Are Men sent to the Gallies for Singing? Ay, marry, are they, quoth the arch Rogue; for there's nothing worse than to sing in Anguish. How, cry'd Don Quixote! That contradicts the Say­ing, Sing away Sorrow, cast away Care. Ay, but with us, the Case is alter'd, reply'd the Slave, he that Sings in Disaster, Weeps all his Life af­ter. This is a Riddle which I cannot unfold, cry'd Don Quixote. Sir, said one of the Guards, Singing in Anguish, among these Jail-Birds, means to confess upon the Rack: This Fellow was put to the Torture, and confess'd his Crime, which was stealing of Cattle; and because he tatled or sung, as they call it, he was condemn'd to the Gallies for six Years; besides a hundred Jirks with a Cat a'nine Tails, that have whisk'd and powder'd his Shoulders already. Now the Rea­son why he goes thus moapish and out o' sorts, is only because his Comrogues jeer and laugh at him continually for not having had the Courage to deny: As if it had not been as easie for him to have said No as Yes; or as if a Fellow, taken up on Suspicion, were not a lucky Rogue [Page 230] when there is no positive Evidence can come in against him but his own Tongue; and in my Opi­nion they're somewhat in the right. I think so too, said Don Quixote.

Thence addressing himself to the third, and you, said he, what have you done? Sir, an­swer'd the Fellow readily and pleasantly enough, I must Mow the great Meadow for five Years together, for want of twice five Ducates. I will give twenty with all my heart, said Don Quixote, to deliver thee from that Misery. Thank you for nothing, quoth the Slave; 'tis just like the Proverb, After Meat comes Mustard; or, like Mony to a starving Man at Sea, where there are no Victuals to be bought with it: Had I had the twenty Ducates you offer me before I was try'd, to have greas'd the Clark's [or the Recorder's] Fist, and have whetted my Lawyer's Wit, I might have been now at Toledo in the Place of Zocodover, and not have been thus led along like a Dog in a String. But Heaven is powerful, Basta; I say no more.

Then passing to the fourth, who was a vene­rable old Don, with a grey Beard that reach'd to his Bosom, he put the same Question to him; whereupon the poor Creature fell a weeping, and was not able to give him an answer: So the next behind him lent him a Tongue. Sir, said he, this honest Person goes to the Gallies for four Years, having already taken his Progress through the Town in state, and rested at the usual Sta­tions. I'll be whip'd, quoth Sancho, if that ben't to do Penance at the Cross, and wear the wooden Ruff at the Pillo [...]y. Right, Gaffor, quoth the Slave; and all this he's condemn'd to for being a Broker of Human Flesh; for to tell you the truth, the Gentleman is a Pimp, and besides that; he has [Page 231] a smack of Conjuring. If it were not for that addition of Conjuring, cry'd Don Quixote, he ought not to have been sent to the Gallies, purely for being a Pimp, unless it were to be General of the Gallies. For the Profession of a Bawd, Pimp or Messenger of Love, is not like other common Employments, but an Office that requires a great deal of Prudence and Sagacity; an Office of Trust and Weight, and most highly necessary in a well regulated Common-wealth; nor should it be executed but by civil well descended Persons of good natural Parts, and of a liberal Education. Nay, 'twere requisite there should be a Controuler and Surveyor of the Profession, as there are of o­thers; and a certain and settled number of 'em as there is of Exchange-Brokers. This wou'd be a means to prevent an infinite number of Mischiefs that happen ev'ry day, because the Trade or Pro­fession is follow'd by poor ignorant Pretenders, sil­ly waiting Women, young giddy brain'd Pages, shallow Footmen, and such raw unexperienced sort of People, who in unexpected Turns and Emer­gencies suffer themselves to be surpriz'd and spoil all for want of quickness of Invention either to conceal, carry on, or bring off a Thing artificially. Had I but time I wou'd point out what sort of Persons are best qualified to be chosen Professors of this most necessary Employment in the Com­mon-wealth; however, at some fitter Season I will inform those of it who may remedy this Dis­order. All I have to say now, is, That the Grief I had to see these venerable grey Hairs in such Distress, for having follow'd that no less use­ful than ingenious Vocation of Pimping, is now lost in my abhorrence of his additional Character of a Conjurer; tho' I very well know that no Sorcory in the World can affect or force the Will, [Page 232] as some ignorant credulous Persons fondly imagin. For our Will is a free Agent, and no Herb nor Charms can constrain it. As for the Philtres and such like Compositions, which some silly Women and designing Pretenders make, they are nothing but certain Mixtures and poysonous Preparations, that make those who take them run mad; tho' the Deceivers labour to persuade us they can make one Person love another; which, as I've said, is an impossible thing, our Will being a free uncontroulable Power. You say very well, Sir, cry'd the old Coupler; and upon my Honour, I protest I am wholly innocent, as to the Imputation of Witchcraft. As for the Business of Pimping, I cannot deny it; but I never took it to be a Cri­minal Function; for my Intention was, that all Mankind should taste the Sweets of Love, and en­joy each other's Society, living together in Friend­ship and in Peace, free from those Griefs and Jars that unpeople the World. But my harmless De­sign has not been so happy as to prevent my being sent now to a place whence I never expect to return, stooping as I do under the heavy Bur­then of old Age, and being grievously afflicted with the Strangary, which scarce affords me a Moment's respite from Pain. This said, the re­verend Procurer burst out afresh into Tears and Lamentations, which melted Sancho's Heart so much, that he pull'd a piece of Mony out of his Bosom and gave it to him as an Alms.

Then Don Quixote turn'd to the fifth, who seem'd to be nothing at all concern'd. I go to serve his Majesty, said he, for having been some­what too familiar with two of my Cozen-Ger­mans, and two other kind-hearted Virgins that were Sisters: By which means I have multiplied my Kind, and begot so odd and intricate a Med­ley [Page 233] of Kindred, that 'twould puzzle a Convoca­tion of Casuists to resolve their Degrees of Consan­guinity. All this was proved upon me. I had no Friends, and what was worse, no Mony, and so was like to have swung for't: However, I was only condemn'd to the Gallies for six Years, and patiently submitted to't. I feel my self yet young, to my Comfort; so if my Life does but hold out, all will be well in time. If you will be pleas'd to bestow something upon poor Sinners, Heaven will reward you; and when we Pray, we will be sure to remember you, that your Life may be as long and prosperous as your Presence is goodly and no­ble. This brisk Spark appear'd to be a Student and was a great Talker, and a good Latinist.

After him came a Man about thirty Years old, a clever, well set, handsom Fellow, only he squinted horribly with one Eye; he was strangely loaded with Irons: A heavy Chain clogg'd his Leg, and was so long that he twisted it about his Waste like a Girdle; he had a couple of Collars about his Neck, the one to link him to the rest of the Slaves; and the other, one of those Iron Ruffs which they call a Keep-Friend, or a Friend's Foot; from whence two Irons went down to his Mid­dle, and to their two Bars were rivitted a pair of Manacles that grip'd him by the Fists, and were secured with a large Pad-lock; so that he could neither lift his Hands to his Mouth, nor bend down his Head towards his Hands. Don Quixote enquiring why he was worse hamper'd with Irons than the rest? Because he alone has done more Ro­gueries than all the rest, answer'd one of the Guards. This is such a Reprobate, such a Devil of a Fellow, that no Goal nor Fetters will hold him; we are not sure he's fast enough, for all he's chain'd so. What sort of Crimes then has be been [Page 234] guiltty of, ask'd Don Quixote, that he is only sent to the Gallies? Why, answer'd the Keeper, he is condemn'd to ten Years Slavery, which is no better than a Civil Death. But I need not stand to tell you any more of him, but that he is that notorious Rogue Gines de Passamonte, alias Gene­sillo de Parapilla. Hark you, Sir, cry'd the Slave, fair and softly; what a pox makes you give a Gentleman more Names than he has? Gines is my Christian-name, and Passamonte my Sir-name; and not Ginesillo, nor Parapilla as you say. Blood, let every Man mind what he says, or it may prove the worst for him. Don't you be so sawcy, Mr. Crack-rope, cry'd the Officer to him, or I may chance to make you keep a better Tongue in your Head. 'Tis a sign, cry'd the Slave, that a Man's fast and under the Lash, but one day or other some body shall know whether I'm called Parapilla or no. Why, Mr. Slip-string, reply'd the Officer, do not People call you by that Name? They do, answer'd Gines, but I'll make 'em call me other­wise, or I'll fleece and bite 'em worse than I care to tell you now. But, you, Sir, who are so inquisitive, added he, turning to Don Quixote, if you've a mind to g [...]ve us any thing, pray do it quickly, and go your ways; for I don't like to stand here answering Questions, broil me. I am Gines de Passamonte, I am not asham'd of my Name. As for my Life and Conversation, there's an Account of 'em in Black and White, written with this numerical H [...]d of mine. There he tells you true, said the Officer; for he has writ­ten his own History himself, without omitting a Tittle of his Roguish Pranks; and he has left the Manuscript in Pawn in the Prison for two Hun­dred Reals. Ay, said Gines, and will redeem it, burn me, 'tho' it lay there for as many Ducats. [Page 235] Then it must be an extraoadinary Piece, cry'd Don Quixote. So extraordinary, reply'd Gines, that it far out-does not only Lazarillo de Tormes, but whatever has been and shall be written in that kind. For mine's true every Word, and no in­vented Stories can compare with it for variety of Tricks and Accidents. What's the Title of the Book, ask'd Don Quixote? The Life of Gines de Passamonte, answer'd t'other. Is it quite finish'd, ask'd the Knight? How the Devil can it be finish'd and I yet living, reply'd the Slave? There's in it every material Point from my Cradle, to this my last going to the Gallies. Then it seems you have been there before, said Don Quixote. I was only some four Years there once before, reply'd Gines: I already know how the Bisket and the Bull's Piz­zle agree with my Carcass: It does not grieve me much to go there again, for there I shall have lei­sure to give a finishing Stroke to my Book. I have the Devil knows what to add; and in our Spanish Gallies there is always Leisure and idle Time enough o' Conscience: Neither shall I want so much for what I've to insert, for I know it all by Heart.

Thou seemst to be a witty Fellow, said Don Quixote. You should have said unfortunate too, reply'd the Slave; for the Bitch Fortune is still unkind to Men of Wit. You mean to such wicked Wretches as your self, cry'd the Officer. Look you, Mr. Commissary, said Gines, I have already desired you to use good Language; the Law did not give us to your keeping for you to abuse us, but only to conduct us where the King has occasion for us. Let every Man mind his own Business, and give good Words or hold his Tongue; for by the Blood—I'll say no more; Murther will out; there will be a Time when some People's Rogueries [Page 236] may come to Light, as well as those of other Folks. With that the Officer, provok'd by the Slave's Threats, held up his Staff to strike him. But Don Quixote step'd between 'em, and desired him not to do it, and to consider that the Slave was the more to be excus'd for being too free of his Tongue, since he had ne'er another Member at Liberty. Then addressing himself to all the Slaves, My dearest Brethren, cry'd he, I find, by what I gather from your own Words, that tho' you deserve Punishment for the several Crimes of which you stand convicted, yet you suffer Execu­tion of the Sentence by Constraint, and meerly because you cannot help it. Besides, 'tis not un­likely but that this Man's want of Resolution up­on the Rack, the other's want of Mony, the third's want of Friends and Favour, and in short the Judges perverting and wresting the Law to your great Prejudice, may have been the cause of your Misery. Now, as Heaven has sent me into the World to relieve the Distress'd, and free suffering Weakness from the Tyranny of Oppression, ac­cording to the Duty of my Profession of Knight-Errantry, these Considerations induce me to take you under my Protection—But because 'tis the part of a prudent Man not to use Violence where fair Means may be effectual, I desire you, Gentle­men of the Guard, to release these poor Men, there being People enough to serve his Majesty in their rooms; for 'tis a hard Case to make Slaves of Men that were born free; and you have the less Reason to use these Wretches with Severity, see­ing they never did you any wrong. Let 'em an­swer for their Sins in the other World; Heaven is just, you know, and will besure to punish the Wicked as 'twill certainly reward the Good. Consider besides Gentlemen, that 'tis neither a [Page 237] Christian like nor an honorable Action for Men to be the Butchers and Tormentors of one another; principally when no Advantage can arise from it. I chuse to desire this of you, with so much Mild­ness and in so peaceable a manner, Gentlemen, that I may have occasion to pay you a thankful Acknowledgment, if you will be pleas'd to grant so reasonable a Request. But if you provoke me by Refusal, I must be oblig'd to tell ye, that this Lance and this Sword, guided by this invincible Arm, shall force you to yield that to my Valour which you deny to my civil Entreaties.

A very good Jest indeed, cry'd the Officer, what a Devil, can you dote at such a Rate? Would you have us set at Liberty the King's Prisoners when we are leading 'em to due Punishment according to Law. Go, go about your Business, good Sir Errant, and set your Bason right upon your empty Pate; and pray don't meddle any further in what does not concern you, for those who'll play with Cats must expect to be scratch'd.

Thou art a Cat, and a Rat, and a Coward to boot, cry'd Don Quixote; and with that he at­tack'd the Officer with such a sudden and sur­prizing Fury, that before he had any Time to put himself into a posture of Defence, he struck him down dangerously wounded with his Lance, and as Fortune had order'd it, this happen d to be the Horseman who was arm'd with a Carabine. His Companions stood astonish'd at such a bold and unlook'd for Action, then fell upon the Cham­pion with their Swords and Darts, which night have prov'd fatal to him, had not the Slaves laid hold of this Opportunity to break the Chain in order to regain their Liberty. For the Guards perceiving their Endeavours to get loose, thought it more material to prevent 'em, than to be sighting [Page 238] a Madman. But as he prest 'em vigorously on one side, and the Slaves were opposing them and freeing themselves on the other, the hurly-burly was so great, and the Guards so perplex'd that they did nothing to the purpose. In the mean time Sancho was helping Gines de Passamonte to get off his Gives, which he did sooner than can be ima­gin'd, and then that active Desperado having seiz'd the wounded Officer's Sword and Carabine, he join'd with Don Quixote, and sometimes aim­ing at the one and sometimes at the other, as if he had been ready to shoot 'em, yet still without let­ting off the Piece, the other Slaves at the same time pouring Vollies of Stone-shot at the Guards, they betook themselves to their Heels, leaving Don Quixote and the Criminals Masters of the Field. Sancho, who was always for taking Care of the main Chance, was not at all pleas'd with this Victory; for he guess'd that the Guards who were fled, would raise a Hue and Cry and soon be at their Heels with the whole Posse of the Holy Bro­therhood, and lay 'em up for a Rescue and Rebellion. This made him advise his Master to get out of the way as fast as he could, and hide himself in the neighbouring Mountains. I hear you, answer'd Don Quixote to this motion of his Squire, and I know what I have to do. Then calling to him all the Slaves, who by this time had uncas'd the Keeper to his Skin, they gather'd about him to know his Pleasure, and he spoke to them in this manner. 'Tis the part of generous Spirits to have a grateful Sense of the Benefits they receive, no Crime being more odious than Ingratitude. You see, Gentlemen, what I have done for your sakes, and you cannot but be sensible how highly you're oblig'd to me. Now all the Recompence I re­quire is only that every one of you, loaden with that [Page]

[Page] [Page 239] Chain from which I have freed your Necks, do instantly repair to the City of Toboso; and there, presenting your selves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, tell her that her faithful Votary, the Knight of the Woful Countenance, commanded you to wait on her, and assure her of his profound Veneration. Then you shall give her an exact Account of ev'ry Particular relating to this famous Atchieve­ment, by which you once more taste the Sweets of Liberty; which done, I give you leave to seek your Fortunes where you please.

To this the Ring-leader and Master-thief Gines de Passamonte made Answer for all the rest, What you would have us do, said he, our noble De­liverer, is absolutely impracticable and impossible; for we dare not be seen altogether for the World. We must rather part and sculk some one way, some another, and lie snug in Creeks and Corners under Ground, for fear of these damn'd Manhounds that will be after us with a Hue and Cry; there­fore all we can and ought to do in this Case is to change this Complement and Homage which you'd have us pay to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso into a certain number of Ave Maries and Creeds, which we will say for your Benefit; and this may be done by Night or by Day, walking or standing, and in War as well as in Peace. But to imagin we shall take up our Chains again, and lug 'em the Devil knows whither, is as unreasonable as to think 'tis Night now at ten a Clock in the Morning. S'death, to expect this from us is to expect Pears from an Elm-Tree. Now, by my Sword, Sir Son of a Whore, Sir Genesillo de Parapilla, or what­ever be your Name, you shall go alone, creeping like a Dog under a Door, with all the Chain about your Shoulders. Gines, who was naturally very cholerick, judging by Don Quixote's Talk and last [Page 240] Exploit that he was not very wise, wink'd on his Companions, who, like Men that understood Signs, presently fell back to the right and left, and pelted Don Quixote with such a Shower of Stones, that all his Dexterity to cover himself with his Shield was now ineffectual, and poor Rozinante no more obey'd the Spur, than if he had been only the Statue of a Horse. As for Sancho, he got behind his Ass, and there shelter'd himself from the Vol­lies of Flints that threaten'd his Bones, while his Master was so batter'd, that in a little time he was thrown out of his Saddle to the Ground. He was no sooner down, but the Student leap'd on him, took off the Bason from his Head, gave him 3 or 4 Thumps o' the Shoulders with it, and then gave it so many knocks against the Stones that he almost broke it to pieces. After this, they stripp'd him of his Coat; and had robb'd him of his Hose too, but that his Greaves hinder'd them. They also eas'd Sancho of his upper Coat, and left him in Cuerpo; then having divided the Spoils, they shift­ed every one for himself, thinking more how to avoid being taken up and link'd again in the Chain, than of trudging with it to my Lady Dulci­nea del Toboso. Thus the Ass, Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, remain'd indeed Masters of the Field, but in an ill Condition. The Ass hang­ing his Head and pensive, shaking his Ears now and then, as if the Vollies of Stones had still whizz'd about 'em: Rozinante lying in a des­ponding manner, for he had been knock'd down as well as his unhappy Rider; Sancho uncas'd to his Doublet, and trembling for fear of the Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote fill'd with sullen Regret to find himself so barbarously us'd by those whom he had so highly oblig'd.

CHAP. IX. What befel the Renown'd Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena; being one of the rarest Adventures in this most Authen­tic History.

DON Quixote finding himself so ungratefully requited, Sancho, said he to his Squire, I have often heard it said, save a Thief from the Gallows, and he'll be the first shall hang you. Had I given ear to thy advice, I had been excus'd this Misfortune. But since the thing is done, 'tis needless to repine. This shall be a warning to me for the future: That is, quoth Sancho, when the Devil's blind. But since you say you had scap'd this Mischief had you believ'd me, good Sir, be­lieve me now and you'll scape a greater; for I must tell you, that those of the Holy Brotherhood don't stand in awe of your Chivalry, nor do they care a straw for all the Knights-Errant in the world. Methinks I have 'em at my heels already, and their rusty Weapons about my Ears. Thou art naturally a Coward, Sancho, cry'd Don Quix­ote; nevertheless that thou mayst not say I am obstinate, and never follow thy advice, I will take thy Counsel, and for once convey my self out of the reach of this dreadful Brotherhood that so strangely alarms thee; but upon this condition, that thou never tell to any mortal Creature nei­ther while I live, nor after my death, that I with­drew [Page 242] my self out of this Danger thro fear, but merely to comply with thy Intreaties: For if thou ever presume to say otherwise, thou wilt be lye me; and from this time to that time, and from that time to the World's end, I give thee the Lie, and thou liest, and shalt lie in thy Throat as often as thou say'st, or but think'st to the con­trary. Therefore do not offer to reply; for shoud'st thou but surmise that I wou'd avoid any danger, and especially this which seems to give some occasion or colour for fear, I wou'd certain­ly stay here, tho unattended and alone, and ex­pect and face not only the Holy Brotherhood which thou dread'st so much, but also the Fra­ternity, or twelve Heads of the Tribes of Israel, the seven Macchabees, Castor and Pollux, and all the Brothers and Brotherhoods in the Universe. An't please your Worship, quoth Sancho, to with­draw is not to run away, and to stay is no wise action when there's more reason to fear than to hope; [...]ods bores, 'tis the part of a wise Man to keep himself to day for to morrow, and not ven­ture all his Eggs in one Basket: And for all I' [...] but a Clown or a Bumpkin as you may say, yet I'd have you to know, I know what's what, and have always taken care of the main Chance; therefore don't be asham'd of being rul'd by me; but e'en get you o' Horse-back, an you're able: come I'll help you, and then follow me; for my mind plaguily misgives me, that now one pair of Heels will stand us in more stead than two pair of Hands.

Don Quixote without any Reply made shift to mount Rozinante, and Sancho on his Ass led the way to the neighbouring mountainous Desert call'd Sierra Morena, which the crafty Squire had a [Page 243] design to cross over, and get out at the farthest end, either at Viso, or Almadovar del Campo, and in the mean time to lurk in the craggy and al­most inaccessible Retreats of that vast Wilder­ness, for fear of falling into the hands of the Holy Brotherhood. He was the more eager to stee [...] this Course, finding that the Provision which he had laid on his Ass had escap'd plundering, which was a kind of a Miracle, considering how narrowly the Gally-slaves had search'd every where for Booty. 'Twas night before our two Travellers got to the middle and most desart part of the Mountain, where Sancho advis'd his Master to stay some days, at least as long as their Provisi­ons lasted; and accordingly that night they took up their Lodging between two Rocks among a great number of Cork-trees. But fatal Fortune, which, according to the opinion of those that have not the Light of Faith, guides, appoints, and contrives all things as it pleases, directed Gines de Passamonte (that Master-Rogue, who, thanks be to Don Quixot's Force and Folly, had been put in a condition to do him a Mischief) to this very part of the Mountain, in order to hide himself till the Heat of the Pursuit, which he had just cause to fear, were over. He discover'd our Ad­venturers much about the time that they fell a­sleep; and as wicked Men are always ungrateful, and urgent necessity prompts many to do things at the very thoughts of which they perhaps would start at other times, Gines who was a stranger both to Gratitude and Humanity, resolv'd to ride away with Sancho's Ass;; for as for Rozinante he [...]ook'd upon him as a thing that would neither sell nor pawn: so while poor Sancho lay snoaring, he spi­ [...]ited away his darling Beast, and made such haste [Page 244] that before day he thought himself and his Prize secure from the unhappy owner's pursuit.

Now Aurora with her smiling Face return'd to inliven and cheer the Earth, but alas to grieve and affright Sancho with a dismal Discovery: For he no sooner open'd his Eyes but he miss'd his Ass, and finding himself depriv'd of that dear Partner of his Fortunes, and best Comfort in his Peregri­nations, he broke out into the most pitiful and sad Lamentations in the World, insomuch that he wak'd Don Quixote with his moans. O dear Child of my Bowels, cry'd he, born and bred under my roof, my Childrens Play-fellow! The Comfort of my Wife, the Envy of my Neigh­bours, the Ease of my Burdens, the Staff of my Life, and in a word half my Maintenance; for with six and twenty Marvedis which were daily earn'd by thee, I made shift to keep half my Fa­mily. Don Quixote, who easily guest the Cause of these Complaints, strove to comfort him with kind condoling Words, and learned Discourses upon the uncertainty of human Happiness. But nothing prov'd so effectual to assuage his sorrow, as the promise which his Master made him of drawing a Bill of Exchange on his Niece for three Asses out of five which he had at home, payable to Sancho Pancha or his Order; which prevailing Argument soon dry'd up his Tears, hush'd his Sighs and Moans, and turn'd his Complaints in­to thanks to his generous Master for so unexpect­ed a Favour.

And now as they wandred further in these Mountains, Don Quixote was transported with joy, to find himself where he might flatter his Ambition with the hopes of fresh Adventures to signalize his Valour; for these vast Desarts made [Page 245] him call to mind the wonderful Exploits of other Knights-Errant perform'd in such Solitudes. Fill'd with those airy Notions, he thought on nothing else: But Sancho was for more substantial Food; and now thinking himself quite out of the reach of the holy Brotherhoods pursuit, his only care was to fill his Belly with the Relicks of the Clerical Booty, which Rozinante was now forc'd to carry; and so trudging on after his Master, he slily took out, now one piece of Meat, then another, and kept his Grinders going faster than his Feet: Thus plodding on, he wou'd not have given a Rush to have met with any other Adventure.

While he was thus employ'd, he observ'd that his Master endeavour'd to take up something that lay on the ground with the end of his Lance; this made him run to help him to lift up the Bundle, which proved to be a Portmanteau, and the Seat of a Saddle, that were half, or rather quite, rot­ted with lying expos'd to the Weather. The Port­manteau was somewhat heavy; and Don Quixote having order'd Sancho to see what it contain'd, tho it was shut with a Chain and a Padlock, he easily saw what was in it thro the Cracks, and pull'd out four fine Holland Shirts, and other clean and fashionable Linen, besides a considerable quantity of Gold ty'd up in a Hankerchief: Bless my Eye-sight, quoth Sancho, and now Heav'n I thank thee for sending us a lucky Adventure once [...]n our Lives. With that, groping further in the Portmanteau, he found a Table-Book richly bound: Give me this, said Don Quixote, and do thou keep the Gold. Heaven reward your Worship, quoth Sancho, kissing his Master's hand, and at the same time clapping up the Linnen and the other Things into the Bag where he kept the [Page 246] Victuals. I fancy, said Don Quixote, that some Person having lost his way in these Mountains has been met by Robbers, who have murder'd him and buried his Body somewhere hereabouts. Sure your Worship's mistaken, answer'd Sancho; for had they been Highway-men, they wou'd ne'r have left such a Booty behind 'em. Thou'rt in the right, reply'd Don Quixote; and therefore I cannot imagin what it must be. But stay, I will examin the Table-Book, perhaps we shall find something written in it that will help us to discover what I wou'd know. With that he open'd it, and the first thing he found was the following rough draught of a Sonnet, fairly enough written to be read with ease. So he read it aloud, that San­cho might know what it was as well as himself.

The De'il of any thing can be pic'kd out of this, quoth Sancho, unless you can tell who that same Phill is. I did not read Phill, but Phillis, said Don Quixote. O then mayhap the Man has lost his Philly-foal. Phillis, said Don Quixote, is the Name of a Lady that's belov'd by the Author of this Sonnet, who truly seems to be a pretty good Poet, or I've but little Judgment. Why then, quoth Sancho, belike your Worship under­stands how to make Varses too? That I do, an­swer'd Don Quixote, and better than thou ima­gin'st, as thou shalt see when I shall give thee a Letter written all in Verse, to carry to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso: For I must tell thee, Friend Sancho, all the Knights-Errant, or at least the greatest part of 'em, in former times were great Poets, and as great Musicians; those two Quali­fications, or to speak better, those two Gifts or Accomplishments being almost inseparable from amorous Adventurers: Tho I must confess, the Verses of the Knights in former Ages are not al­together so polite, nor so adorn'd with Words, as with Thoughts and Invention.

Good Sir, quoth Sancho, look again in the Pocket-Book, mayhap you'll find somewhat that will inform you of what you wou'd know. With that Don Quixote turning over-leaf, There's some Prose, cry'd he, and I think 'tis the sketch of a Love-Letter. O good your Worship, quoth Sancho, read it out by all means; for I mightily delight in hearing of Love-Stories.

[Page 248] Don Quixote read it aloud, and found what follows.

This Letter, said Don Quixote, does not give us any further insight into the Things we wou'd know; all I can infer from it is, that the Person that wrote it was a betray'd Lover. And so turning over the remaining Leaves, he found several other Letters and Verses, some of which were legible, and some so scribbled that he could not well peruse 'em. As for those he read, he cou'd meet with nothing in 'em, but Accusations, Complaints and Expo­stulations, Distrusts and Jealousies, Pleasures and Discontents, Favours and Disdain. And while [Page 249] the Knight was poring in the Table-Book, Sancho was romaging the Portmanteau, and the Seat of the Saddle, with that exactness that he did not leave a Corner unsearch'd, nor a Seam unript, nor a single Lock of Wool unpickt; for the Gold he had found, which was above a hundred Ducats, had but whetted his greedy Appetite, and made him wild for more. Yet tho this was all he cou'd find, he thought himself well paid for the more than Herculean Labours he had undergone: nor cou'd he now repine at his being toss'd in a Blan­ket; the straining and griping Operation of the Balsam; the Benedictions of the Packslaves and Leavers; the Fisticuffs of the lewd Carrier; the Loss of his dear Wallet, of his Cloke, and of his dearer Ass; and all the Hunger, Thirst, and Fatigue which he had suffer'd in his kind Master's Service. On the other side, the Knight of the woful Countenance strangely desir'd to know who was the Owner of the Portmanteau, guessing by the Verses, the Letter, the Linen and the Gold, that he was a Person of Worth, whom the Dis­dain and Infidelity of his Mistress had driven to despair. At length however he gave over the thoughts of it, discovering no Body thro that vast Desart; and so he rode on, wholly guided by Rozinante's Direction, which always made the grave sagacious Creature chuse the plainest smoothest Way; the Master still firmly believing that in those woody uncultivated Fields, he shou'd infallibly start some wonderful Adventure.

And indeed while these hopes possess'd him, he spy'd, upon the top of a stony Crag just before him, a Man that skip'd from Rock to Rock, over Bryars and Bushes, with wonderful agility; he seem'd to him naked from the Waste upwards, [Page 250] with a thick black Beard, his Hair long and strangely tangled, his Head, Legs and Feet bare; on his Hips a pair of Breeches, that seem'd to be of sad-colour'd Velvet, but so tatter'd and torn that they discover'd his Skin in many places. These Particulars were observ'd by Don Quix­ote while he past by; and he follow'd him, indeavouring to overtake him, for he presently guess'd this was the Owner of the Portmanteau. But Rozinante, who was naturally slow and fleg­matic, was in too weak a case besides to run Ra­ces with so swift an Apparition: Yet the Knight of the woful Countenance resolv'd to find out that unhappy Creature, tho he were to bestow a whole year in the search. And to that intent he order'd Sancho to beat one side of the Mountain while he hunted on the other. In good sooth, quoth San­cho, your Worship must excuse me as to that; for if I but offer to stir an inch from you, I'm al­most frighted out of my seven Senses: and let this serve you hereafter for a warning, that you mayn't send me a Nail's breadth from your pre­sence. Well, said the Knight, I will take thy Case into consideration: and it does not displease me, Sancho, to see thee thus rely upon my Va­lour; which, I dare assure thee, shall never fail thee, tho thy very Soul were scar'd out of thy Bo­dy. Follow me therefore step by step, with as much haste as is consistent with good speed. And let thy Eyes pry ev'ry where, while we search every part of this Rock, where 'tis probable we may meet with that wretched Mortal, who doubt­ [...]ess is the owner of the Portmanteau.

Odsnigs, Sir, quoth Sancho, I had rather get out of his way; for shou'd we chance to meet him, and he lay claim to the Portmanteau, 'tis a [Page 251] plain Case I shall be forc'd to part with the Mo­ney: and therefore I think 'tis much better, with­out making so much ado, to let me keep it bony fide, till we can light on the right Owner some more easy way, and without dancing after him, which mayhap mayn't happen till we have spent all the Mony, and in that Case I'm free from the Law, and he may go whistle for't. Thou art mistaken, Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote; for, seeing we have some reason to think that we know who is the Owner, we are bound in Conscience to endeavour to find him out, and restore it to him; the ra­ther because, shou'd we not now strive to meet him, yet the strong presumption we have that the Goods belong to him, wou'd make us possessors of 'em malà fide, and make us as guilty, as if the Party whom we suspect to have lost the Things were really the right Owner. Therefore, Friend Sancho, do not think much of searching for him, since if we find him out 'twill extremely ease my mind. With that he spurr'd Rozinante; and San­cho, not very well pleas'd, follow'd him, com­forting himself however with the hopes of the three Asses which his Master had promised him. So when they had rode over the greatest part of the Mountain, they came to a Brook where they found a Mule lying dead, with her Saddle and Bridle about her, and her self half devour'd by Beasts and Birds of Prey: Which Discovery fur­ther confirm'd 'em in their suspicion, that the Man who fled so nimbly from 'em was the Owner of the Mule and Portmanteau. Now as they paus'd and ponder'd upon this, they heard a whistling like that of some Shepherd keeping his Flocks; and presently after, upon their left hand, they spy'd a great number of Goats, with an old [Page 252] Herdsman after 'em on the top of the Mountain. Don Quixote call'd out to him, and desir'd him to come down: But the Goatherd instead of an­swering him, ask'd 'em in as loud a Tone, how they came thither into those Desarts, where scarce any living Creatures resorted except Goats, Wolves, and other wild Beasts? Sancho told him they would satisfy him as to that point, if he wou'd come where they were. With that the Goatherd came down to 'em; and seeing them look upon the dead Mule, That Mule, said the old Fellow, has lain in that very place this six months. But pray tell me, good People, have you not met the Master on't by the way? We have met no Body, answer'd Don Quixote; but we found a Portmanteau, and a Saddle-Cushion not far from this place. I have seen it too, quoth the Goatherd, but I never durst meddle with it, nor so much as come anear it, for fear of some Misdemeanor, lest I shou'd be charg'd with hav­ing stolen somewhat out of it. For who knows what might happen? the Devil is subtle, and sometimes lays Baits in our way to tempt us, or Blocks to make us stumble. 'Tis just so with me, Gaffer, quoth Sancho, for I saw the Portmanteau too, d'ye' see; but the Devil a bit wou'd I come within a stone's throw of it. No, there I found it and there I left it e'faith. It shall e'en lie there still for me: He that keeps another man's Dog, shall have nothing left him but the string: and I'll be none of those that shall hang the Bell about the Cat's Neck. Tell me, honest Friend, ask'd Don Quixote, dost thou know who is the owner of those things? All I know of the matter, answer'd the Goatherd, is that 'tis now some six months, little more or less, since to a certain Sheepfold, [Page 253] some three Leagues off, there came a young well-featur'd proper Gentleman in good Clothes, and under him this same Mule that now lies dead here, with the Cushion and Cloke-bag which you say you met, but touch'd not. He ask'd us which was the most desart and least frequented part of these Mountains; and we told him, This where we are now. And in that we spoke the plain Truth; for shou'd you venture to go but half a League further, you wou'd hardly be able to get back again in haste; and I marvel how you cou'd get even thus far, for there's neither High-way nor Foot-path that may direct a Man this way. Now as soon as the young Gentleman had heard our Answer, he turn'd about his Mule, and made to the place we show'd him, leaving us all with a hugeous liking of his Comeliness, and strangely marvelling at his Demand, and at the haste he made towards the middle of the Mountain. After that we heard no more of him in a good while, till one day by chance one of the Shepherds com­ing by, he fell upon him without saying why or wherefore, and beat him well-favour'dly: After that he went to the Ass that carried our Victuals, and taking away all the Bread and Cheese that was there, he tripp'd back again to the Mountain with wondrous speed. Hearing this, a good num­ber of us together resolv'd to find him out; and when we had spent the best part of two days in the thickest of the Forest, we found him at last lurking in the hollow of a huge Cork-Tree, from whence he came forth to meet us as mild as cou'd be. But then he was so alter'd, his Face was so disfigur'd, wan, and Sun burnt, that had it not been for his Attire, which we made shift to know again, tho 'twas all in Rags and Tatters, we cou'd [Page 254] not ha' thought it had been the same Man. He sa­luted us courteously, and told us in few words, mighty handsomly put together, that we were not to marvel to see him in that manner, for that it behov'd him so to do, that he might fulfil a certain Penance injoyn'd him for the great Sins he had committed. We pray'd him to tell us who he was, but he wou'd by no means do it. We likewise desir'd him to let us know where we might find him, that whensoever he wanted Vic­tuals we might bring him some, which we told him we wou'd be sure to do, for otherwise he wou'd be starv'd in that barren place; requesting him that if he did not like of that Motion nei­ther, he wou'd at leastwise come and ask us for what he wanted, and not take it by force as he had done. He thank d us heartily for our Offer, and begg'd pardon for that Injury, and promis'd to ask it henceforwards as an Alms, without setting upon any one. As for his place of abode, he told us he had none certain, but where-ever night caught him, there he lay. And he ended his Dis­course with such bitter Moans, that we must have had hearts of Flint had we not had a feeling of 'em, and kept him company therein; chiefly con­sidering we beheld him so strangely alter'd from what we had seen him before: for as I said, he was a very fine comely young Man, and by his Speech and Behaviour we cou'd guess him to be well born, and a Court-like sort of a Body. Now as he was talking to us, he stop'd of a sudden as if he had been struck dumb, fixing his Eyes sted­fastly on the ground; whereat we all stood in a maze. After he had thus star'd a good while, he shut his Eyes, then open'd 'em again, bit his Lips, knit his Brows, clutch'd his Fists; and then rising [Page 255] from the ground, whereon he had thrown him­self a little before, he flew at the Man that stood next to him with such a fury, that if we had not pull'd him off by main force, he wou'd have bit and thump'd him to death. And all the while he cry'd out; Ah, Traitor, Ferdinand, here, here thou shalt pay for the Wrong thou hast done me; I must rip up that false Heart of thine; and a deal more he added, all in the dispraise of that same Ferdi­nand. After that he flung from us without saying a word, leaping over the Bushes and Brambles at such a strange rate, that 'twas impossible for us to come at him. From which we gather'd that his Madness comes on him by fits, and that some one call'd Ferdinand had done him an ill Turn, that had brought the poor young Man to this pass. And this has been confirm'd since that many and many times; for when he's in his right Senses, he'l come and beg for Victuals, and thank us for 'em with Tears: But when he's in his mad Fit, he'l beat us tho we proffer him Meat civilly. And to tell you the Truth, Sirs, added the Goatherd, I and four others, of whom two are my Men, and the other two my Friends, yesterday agreed to look for him till we should find him out, and ei­ther by fair means or by force, to carry him to Almodovar Town, that's but eight Leagues off; and there we'll have him cur'd if possible, or at least we shall learn what he is when he comes to his Wits, and whether he has any Friends to whom he may be sent back. This is all I know of the Matter, and I dare assure you that the owner of those things which you saw in the way, is the self-same Body that went so nimbly by you; for Don Quixote had by this time acquainted the Goat­herd with his having seen that Man skipping a­mong the Rocks.

[Page 256]The Knight was wonderfully concern'd when he had heard the Goatherd's Story, and renew'd his Resolution of finding out that distracted Wretch, whatever Time and Pains it might cost him. But Fortune was more propitious to his Desires than he cou'd reasonably have expected; for just as they were speaking they spy'd him right against the place where they stood, coming towards 'em out of the Cleft of a Rock, muttering somewhat to himself which they cou'd not well have understood had they stood close by him, much less cou'd they guess his meaning at that distance. His Apparel was such as has already been said, only Don Quix­ote observ'd, when he drew nearer, that he had on a Shamoy Wastcoat torn in many places, which yet the Knight knew to be perfum'd with Amber; and by this, as also by the rest of his Clothes, and o­ther Conjectures, he judg'd him to be a Man of some Quality. As soon as the unhappy Creature came near 'em, he saluted 'em very civilly, but with a hoarse Voice. Don Quixote return'd his Civili­ties, and alighting from Rozinante, he accosted him in a very graceful manner, and hugg'd him close in his Arms, as if he had been one of his in­timate Acquaintance. The other, vvhom we may venture to call The ragged Knight of the Rock, as vvell as Don Quixote, The Knight of the Woful Countenance, having got loose from that Embrace, cou'd not forbear stepping back a little; and lay­ing his hands on the Champion's Shoulders, he stood staring in his Face as if he had been striving to call to mind whether he had known him be­fore; probably wondering as much to behold Don Quixote's Countenance, Armor and strange Figure, as Don Quixote did to see his tatter'd Con­dition. But the first that opened his Mouth after [Page 257] this Pause was the ragged Knight, as you shall find by the sequel of the Story.

CHAP. X. The Adventure in the Sierra Morena continued.

THE History relates that the Knight of the Woful Countenance listen'd with great atten­tion to the disastrous Knight of the Rock, who made him the following Complement. Truly, Sir, whoever you be (for I have not the honour to know you) I'm much oblig'd to you for your Expressions of Civility and Friendship; and I cou'd wish I were in a condition to convince you otherwise than by words of the deep sense I have of 'em: but my bad Fortune leaves nothing to re­turn for so many Favours but unprofitable Wishes. Sir, answer'd Don Quixote, I've so hearty a de­sire to serve you, that I was fully resolv'd not to depart from this Wilderness till I had found you out, that I might know from your self, whether the Discontents that have urg'd you to make choice of this unusual Course of Life might not admit of a Remedy; for if they do, assure your self I will leave no means untry'd, till I have pur­chas'd you that ease which I heartily wish you. Or if your Disasters are of that fatal kind that excludes you for ever from the hopes of Comfort or Relief, then will I mingle Sorrows with you, and by sharing your load of Grief, help you to bear the oppressing weight of Affliction. For [Page 258] 'tis the only comfort of the Miserable to have Partners in their Woes. If then good Intentions may plead Merit, or a grateful Requital, let me intreat you Sir, by that generous Nature that shoots thro the Gloom with which Adversity has clouded your graceful Outside; nay let me con­jure you by the darling Object of your wishes, to let me know who you are, and what strange Misfortunes have urg'd you to withdraw from the Converse of your fellow Creatures, to bury your self alive in this horrid Solitude, where you lin­ger out a wretched Being, a Stranger to Ease, to all Mankind, and even to your very self. And I solemnly swear, added Don Quixote, by the Or­der of Knighthood, of which I am an unworthy Professor, that if you so far gratify my desires, I will assist you to the utmost of my capacity, either by remedying your Disaster, if 'tis not past redress; or at least I will become your Partner in sorrow, and strive to ease it by a Society in sadness.

The Knight of the Rock hearing the Knight of the Woful Countenance talk at that rate, look'd upon him stedfastly for a long time, and view'd and review'd him from head to foot; and when he had gaz'd a great while upon him, Sir, cry'd he, if you have any thing to eat, for Heaven's sake give it me, and when my Hunger is abated, I shall be better able to comply with your Desires, which your great Civilities and undeserv'd Of­fers oblige me to satisfy. Sancho and the Goat­herd hearing this, presently took out some Victu­als, the one out of his Bag, the other out of his Scrip, and gave it to the Knight of the Rock to allay his hunger: and immediately the famish'd Forester fell on with that greedy haste, that he [Page 259] seem'd rather to devour than feed, for he us'd no intermission between bit and bit, so greedily he chop'd them up. When he had assuag'd his vora­cious Appetite, he beckon'd to Don Quixote and the rest to follow him; and after he had brought 'em to a neighboring Meadow, he laid himself at his ease on the Grass, where the rest of the Company sitting down by him, neither he nor they having yet spoke a word since he fell to eating, he began in this manner.

Sir, said he, If you intend to be inform'd of my Misfortunes, you must promise me beforehand, not to cut off the thread of my doleful Narration with any Questions, or any other Interruption; for in the very instant that any of you do it, I shall leave off abruptly, and will not afterwards go on with the Story. This Preamble put Don Quixote in mind of Sancho's ridiculous Tale, which by his neglect in not telling the Goats, was brought to an untimely Conclusion. I only use this precaution, added the Knight of the [...]ock, because I wou'd be quick in my Relation; for the very remembrance of my former Misfortunes proves a new one to me, and yet I promise you I'll endeavour to omit nothing that's material, that you may have as full an account of my Disasters as I am sensible you desire. Thereupon Don Quixote for himself and the rest having promis'd him unin­terrupted attention, he proceeded in this manner. My Name is Cardenio, the place of my Birth one of the best Cities in Andaluzia; my De­scent noble, and my Parents wealthy. But my Misfortunes are so great, that they are not to be remedy'd with Wealth, and have doubtless fill'd my Relations with the deepest Sorrow. In the same Town dwelt the charming Lucinda, the most [Page 260] beautiful Creature that ever Nature fram'd, equal in Descent and Fortune to my self, but more happy and less constant. I lov'd, nay ador'd her almost from her Infancy; and from her tender years she blest me with as kind a Return as is sutable with the innocent Freedom of that Age. Our Parents were conscious of that early Friendship; nor did they oppose the growth of this inoffensive Passion, which they perceiv'd cou'd have no other Conse­quences than a happy Union of our Families by Marriage; a thing which the equality of our Births and Fortunes did indeed of it self almost invite us to. Afterwards our Loves so grew up with our Years, that Lucinda's Father either judging our usual Familiarity prejudicial to his Daughter's Honour, or for some other Reasons, sent to de­sire me to discontinue my frequent visits to his House. But this restraint prov'd but like that which was us'd by the Parents of that loving Thisbe so celebrated by the Poets, and but added Flames to Flames, and Impatience to Desires. As our Tongues were now debarr'd their former Pri­vilege, we had recourse to our Pens, which assum'd the greater Freedom to disclose the most hidden Secrets of our Hearts; for the presence of the belov'd Object often heightens a certain awe and bashfulness that disorders, confounds, and strikes dumb even the most passionate Lover. How many Letters have I writ to that lovely Charmer! How many soft moving Verses have I not address'd to her! What kind yet honourable Returns have I not receiv'd from her! the mutual Pledges of our secret Love, and the innocent Consolations of a violent Passion! At length languishing and wasting with Desire, depriv'd of that reviving Comfort of my Soul, I resolv'd to remove those [Page 261] Bars with which her Father's Care and decent Caution obstructed my only happiness, by de­manding her of him in Marriage. He very civilly told me, that he thank'd me for the Honor I did him, but that I had a Father alive, whose Con­sent was to be obtain'd as well as his, and who was the most proper Person to make such a Propo­sal. Thereupon going to my Father with a de­sign to beg his Approbation and Assistance, I found him in his Chamber with a Letter open'd in his hand, which, as soon as he saw me, he put into my hand, before I cou'd have time to ac­quaint him with my Business. Cardenio, said he, you'll see by this Letter the extraordinary kind­ness that Duke Ricardo has for you. I suppose I need not tell you, Gentlemen, that this Duke Ricardo is a Grandee of Spain, most of whose Estate lies in the best part of Andaluzia. I read the Letter, and found it contain'd so kind and ad­vantageous an Offer, that my Father cou'd not but accept of it with thankfulness: For the Duke en­treated him to send me to him with all speed, that I might be the Companion of his eldest Son, pro­mising withal to advance me to a Post answerable to the good Opinion he had of me. This unex­pected News struck me dumb; but my Surprize and Disappointment were much greater, when I heard my Father say to me, Cardenio, you must get ready to be gone in two days; in the mean time give Heaven thanks for opening you a way to that Preferment, which I am sensible you deserve. After this he gave me several wise Ad­monitions both as a Father and a Man of business, and then he left me. The Day fix'd for my Journy quickly came; however the night that preceded it, I spoke to Lucinda at her Window, and told [Page 262] her what had happen'd. I also gave her Father a visit, and inform'd him of it too; beseeching him to preserve his good Opinion of me, and de­fer the bestowing of his Daughter till I had been with Duke Ricardo, which he kindly promis'd me: and then Lucinda and I after an exchange of Vows and Protestations of eternal Fidelity, took our leaves of one another, with all the Grief which two tender and passionate Lovers can feel at a separation.

I left the Town, and went to wait upon the Duke, who receiv'd and entertain'd me with that extraordinary Kindness and Civility that soon rais'd the envy of his greatest Favorites. But he that most endearingly caress'd me, was Don Ferdinand, the Duke's second Son, a young, airy, handsom, generous Gentleman, and of a very amorous Disposition; he seem'd to be over­joy'd at my coming, and in a most obliging manner told me he wou'd have me be one of his most intimate Friends. In short, he so really con­vinc'd me of his Affection, that tho his elder Brother gave me many Testimonies of Love and Esteem, yet cou'd I easily distinguish between their Favors. Now, as 'tis common for Bosom-Friends to keep nothing secret from each other, Don Ferdinand relying as much on my Fidelity, as I had reason to depend on his, reveal'd to me his most private thoughts, and among the rest his being in love with the Daughter of a very rich Farmer who was his Father's Vassal. The Beau­ty of that lovely Country Maid, her Virtue, her Discretion, and the other Graces of her Mind, gain'd her the admiration of all those who ap­proach'd her; and those uncommon Endowments had so charm'd the Soul of Don Ferdinand, that [Page 263] finding it absolutely impossible to corrupt her Chastity, since she wou'd not yield to his Em­braces as a Mistriss, he resolv'd to marry her. I thought my self oblig'd by all the Ties of Gra­titude and Friendship, to dissuade him from so unsutable a Match; and therefore I made use of such Arguments as might have diverted any one but so confirm'd a Lover from such an unequal Choice. At last finding 'em all ineffectual, I re­solv'd to inform the Duke his Father with his In­tentions: But Don Ferdinand was too clear-sighted not to read my Design in my great Dislike of his Resolutions, and dreading such a Discovery, which he knew my Duty to his Father might well war­rant, in spight of our Intimacy, since I look'd upon such a Marriage as highly prejudicial to 'em both, he made it his Business to hinder me from betraying his Passion to his Father's Knowledg, assuring me there wou'd be no need to reveal it to him. To blind me effectually, he told me he was willing to try the power of Absence, that common Cure of Love, thus to wear out and lose his unhappy Passion; and that in order to this, he wou'd take a Journey with me to my Father's house, pretending to buy Horses in our Town, where the best in the world are bred. No sooner had I heard this plausible Proposal, but I approv'd it, sway'd by the Interest of my own Love, that made me fond of an opportunity to see my absent Lucinda. I have heard since that Don Ferdinand had then already been blest by his Mistriss with all that boundless Love allows, in the quality of a Husband, and that he only waited an opportu­nity to discover it with safety, being afraid of incurring his Father's Indignation. But as that which we call Love in young People is too of­ten [Page 264] only an irregular Passion and boiling Desire, that has no other Object than sensual Pleasure, and vanishes with Enjoyment, while real Love fixing it self on the Perfections of the Mind is still improving and permanent; as soon as Don Fer­dinand had reap'd the Fruits of his Desires, his strong Affection slacken'd, and his hot Love grew cold: So that if at first his proposing to try the power of Absence, was only a Pretence that he might possess his wishes, there was nothing now which he more heartily coveted, that he might avoid their former Object. And therefore having obtain'd the Duke's leave, away we posted to my Father's House, where Don Ferdinand was enter­tain'd according to his Quality; and I went to visit my Lucinda, who by a thousand innocent Endearments, made me sensible that her Love, like mine, was rather heighten'd than weaken'd by absence, if any thing cou'd heighten a Love so great and so perfect. I then thought my self oblig'd by the Laws of Friendship not to conceal the Secrets of my heart from so kind and inti­mate a Friend, who had so generously intrusted me with his; and therefore, to my eternal Ruin, I unhappily discover'd to him my Passion. I prais'd Lucinda's Beauty, her Wit, her Virtue, and prais'd 'em so like a Lover, so often and so highly, that I rais'd in him a great Desire to see so accomplish'd a Lady; and to gratify his Curiosi­ty, I show'd her to him by the help of a Light, one Evening at a low Window, where we us'd to hold our amorous Interviews. She prov'd but too charming, and too strong a Temptation to Don Ferdinand; and her prevailing Image made so deep an Impression on his Soul, that 'twas sufficient to blot out of his mind all those daily Beauties [Page 265] that had till then imploy'd his wanton Thoughts, he was struck dumb with Wonder and Delight at the sight of the ravishing Apparition; and in short, to see her and to love her prov'd with him the same thing: and when I say to love her, I need not add to desperation, for there's no loving her but to an Extreme. If her Face made him so soon take fire, her Wit quickly set him all in a Flame. He often importun'd me to communi­cate to him some of her Letters, which I indeed wou'd ne'er expose to any eyes but my own; but unhappily one day he found one, wherein she de­sir'd me to demand her of her Father, and to hasten the Marriage. It was pen'd with that ten­derness and discretion, that when he had red it, he presently cry'd out, that the amorous Charms that were scatter'd and divided among other Beau­ties, were all divinely center'd in Lucinda, and in Lucinda alone. Shall I confess a shameful Truth? Lucinda's Praises, tho never so deserv'd, did not sound pleasantly to my Ears out of Don Ferdinand's Mouth. I began to entertain I know not what Distrusts and jealous Fears, the [...]ather because he wou'd still be improving the least opportunity of talking of her, and still of insen­sibly turning the Discourse we had of other mat­ters to make her the Subject, tho never so far fetch'd, of our constant Talk. Not that I was apprehensive of the least Infidelity from Lucinda: [...]ar from it; she gave me daily fresh assurances of her inviolable Affection: but I fear'd ev'ry [...]hing from my malignant Stars, and Lovers are [...]ommonly industrious to make themselves un­ [...]asy.

It happen'd one day that Lucinda, who [...]ook great delight in reading Books of Knight [Page 266] Errantry, desir'd me to lend her the Romance of Amadis de Gaule—

Scarce had Cardenio mention'd Knight-Erran­try, when Don Quixote interrupted him; Sir, said he, had you but told me when you first men­tion'd the Lady Lucinda, that she was an Admirer of Books of Knight-Errantry, there had been no need of using any Amplification to convince me of her being a Person of uncommon Sense: yet, Sir, had she not us'd those mighty Helps, those infalli­ble Guides to Sense, tho indulgent Nature had strove to bless her with the richest Gifts she can bestow, I might justly enough have doubted whe­ther her Perfections could have gain'd her the Love of a Person of your Merit. But now you need not imploy your Eloquence to set forth the greatness of her Beauty, the excellence of her Worth, or the depth of her Sense; for, from this account which I have of her taking great Delight in reading Books of Chivalry, I dare pronounce her to be the most beautiful, nay the most accomplish'd Lady in the Universe: and I heartily cou'd have wish'd that with Amadis de Gaule you had sent her the worthy Don Rugel of Greece; for I am certain the Lady Lucinda wou'd have been extremely delighted with Da­rayda and Garaya, as also with the discreet Shep­herd Darinel, and those admirable Verses of his Bucolics, which he sung and repeated with so good a Grace. But a time may yet be found to give her the satisfaction of reading those Master-pieces if you will do me the Honour to come to my House; for there I may supply you with above three hundred Volumes, whch are my Soul's greatest Delight, and the darling Comfort of my Life; tho now I remember my self, I have [Page 267] just reason to fear there's not one of 'em left in my Study, thanks to the malicious Envy of wic­ked Enchanters. I beg your pardon for giving you this interruption, contrary to my promise; but when I hear the least mention made of Knight-Errantry, it is no more in my power to forbear speaking, than 'tis in the Sun Beams not to warm, or in those of the Moon not to impart her natural humidity; and therefore, Sir, I beseech you to go on.

While Don Quixote was running on with this impertinent Digression, Cardenio hung down his Head on his Breast with all the Signs of a Man lost in sorrow: Nor cou'd Don Quixote with repeated intreaties perswade him to look up, or answer a Word. At last, after he had stood thus a considerable while, he rais'd his head, and suddenly breaking silence, I am posi­tively convinc'd, cry'd he, nor shall any Man in the world ever perswade me to the contrary; and he's a Blockhead who says, that great Villain, Mr. Elizabat the Barber, never lay with Queen Madasima.

'Tis false, cry'd Don Quixote, in a mighty heat, By all the Devils, (and with that he rap'd out three or four round Oaths, as he wou'd often do) 'tis all scandal and base Detraction to say this of Queen Madasima. She was a most noble and virtuous Lady; nor is it to be presum'd that so great a Princess would ever debase her If so far as to fall in love with a Quack. Whoever dares say she did, lies like an errant Villain, and I'll make him acknowledg it, either a foot or a Horseback, arm'd or unarm d, by Night or by Day, or how he pleases. Carde­nio very earnestly fix'd his Eyes on Don Quixote [Page 268] while he was thus defying him, and taking Queen Madasima's part as if she had been his true and lawful Princess; and being provok'd by these Abuses into one of his mad Fits, he took up a great Stone that lay by him, and hit Don Quixote such a blow with it that it beat him on his back. Sancho seeing his Lord and Master so roughly handled, fell upon, the mad Knight of the Rock with his clench'd Fists; but he beat him back at the first Onset, and laid him at his Feet with a single blow; and then he fell a trampling his Guts, like a Baker in a Dough­trough. Nay the Goatherd, who was offering to take Sancho's part, had like to have been serv'd in the same manner. So the ragged Knight having tumbled 'em one over another, and beaten 'em handsomly, he left 'em, and ran into the Woods without the least opposition.

Sancho got up when he saw him gone, and being very much out of humour to find himself so roughly handled without any man­ner of reason, he began to pick a quarrel with the Goatherd, railing at him for not fore­warning 'em of the ragged Knight's mad Fits, that they might have stood upon their Guard. The Goatherd answer'd, he had given 'em warning at first, and if he cou'd not hear, 'twas no fault of his. To this Sancho reply'd, and the Goatherd made a Rejoinder, till from Pro's and Con's they fell to a warmer way of disputing, and went to Fisticuffs together, catch­ing one another by the Beards, and tugging, halling, and belabouring one another so unmer­cifully, that had not Don Quixote parted 'em, they would have pulled one anothers Chins off. Sancho in great wrath still keeping his hold, [Page 269] cry'd to his Master, Let me alone, Sir Knight of the Woful Countenance. This is no dubb'd Knight, but an ordinary Fellow like my self; I may be re­veng'd on him for the wrong he has done me; let me box it out, and fight him fairly hand to fist like a Man. Thou mayst fight him as he's thy Equal, answer'd Don Quixote, but thou ought'st not to do it since he has done us no wrong. After this he pacify'd 'em, and then ad­dressing himself to the Goatherd, he ask'd him whether it were not possible to find out Cardenio again, that he might hear the end of his Story. The Goatherd answer'd, that, as he had already told him, he knew of no settled place that he us'd, but that if they made any stay thereabouts he might be sure to meet with him, mad or sober, some time or other.

CHAP. XI. Of the strange Things that happen'd to the valiant Knight of La Mancha in the Mountain; and of the Penance which he did there, in imitation of the Lovely Ob­scure.

DON Quixote took leave of the Goatherd, and having mounted Rozinante, command­ed Sancho to follow him, which he did, but with no very good will, his Master leading him into the roughest and most craggy part of the Moun­tain. Thus they travell'd for a while without speaking a word to each other; Sancho almost dead and ready to burst for want of a little Chat, waited with great Impatience till his Master should begin, not daring to speak first since his strict in­junction of Silence. But at last not being able to keep his words any longer, Good your Worship, quoth he, give me your Blessing and Leave to be gone, I beseech you, that I may go home to my Wife and Children, where I may talk till I'm weary, and no body can hinder me; for I must needs tell you, that for you to think to lead me a jaunt like a Jack-a-Lanthorn, over Hedg and Ditch, thro Hills and Dales, by Night and by Day, without daring to open my Lips, is but to bury me alive. Could Beasts speak, as they did in Giasopet's Time, it had not been half so bad with me, for then I had had one here to have [Page 271] talk'd with: but to trot on this fashion all the days of my Life after Adventures, and to light on nothing but Thumps, Kicks, and Cuffs, to be one time at Leapfrog in a Blanket, and to have the Cawl of my Belly e'en almost burst, as just now, and after all forsooth to have a man's Mouth sow'd up, without daring to speak one's Mind, I say't again, no living Soul can endure it. I un­derstand thee, Sancho, answer'd Don Quixote, thou linger'st with Impatience to exercise thy talking Faculty. Well, I am willing to free thy Tongue from this Restraint that so cruelly pains thee, upon condition, that the time of this License shall not extend beyond that of our continuance in these Mountains. A match, quoth Sancho, let's make Hay while the Sun shines. I'll talk while I may; what I may do hereafter Heaven knows best. And so beginning to take the Benefit of his Privilege, pray Sir, quoth he, what Occasion had you to take so hotly the part of Queen Magimasa, or what d' ye call her? What a Devil was it to you, whether that same Master Abbot were her Friend in a Corner, or no? Had you taken no no­tice of what was said, as you might well have done, seeing 'twas no business of yours, the Mad­man would have gone on with his Story; you had miss'd a good Thump on the Breast, and I had scap'd some five or six good dowses on the Chaps, besides the trampling of my Puddings. Upon my honour, friend Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, did'st thou but know, as well as I do, what a virtuous and eminent Lady Queen Madasima was, thou would'st say I had a great deal of Patience, seeing I did not strike that profane Wretch on the Mouth out of which such Blasphemies proceeded: For in short, 'twas the highest piece of Detraction to say, [Page 272] That a Queen was scandalously familiar with a Barber-Surgeon: For the truth of the story is, that this Master Elizabat, of whom the Madman spoke, was a Person of extraordinary Prudence, and Sagacity, and was Physician to that Queen, who also made use of his Advice in matters of Importance; but to say she gave him up her Ho­nour, and prostituted her self to the Embraces of a man of an inferior Order, was an impudent, groundless, and slanderous Accusation, worthy the severest Punishment: neither can I believe that Cardenio knew what he said, when he charg'd the Queen with that debasing Guilt; for 'tis plain that his raving Fit had disorder'd the seat of his Understanding. Why, there it is, quoth Sancho; who but a Madman would have minded what a Madman said? What if the Flint that had hit you in the Breast had pash'd your Brains? We had been in a dainty pickle for taking the part of that same Lady, with a peascod on her. Nay and Cardenio would have come off too had he knock'd you on the Head, for the Law has nothing to do with Madmen. Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, we Knights-Errant are oblig'd to vindicate the honour of Wo­men of all Quality soever, as well against Mad­men as against men in their Senses; much more of Queens of that Magnitude and extraordinary Worth as was Queen Madasima, for whose rare Endowments I have a peculiar Veneration; for she was a most beautiful Lady, Discreet and Pru­dent to admiration, and behav'd her self with an exemplary Patience in all her Misfortunes: 'Twas then that the Company and wholesome Counsels of Master Elizabat prov'd very useful to alleviate the burden of her Afflictions; from which the ig­norant and ill meaning Vulgar took occasion to [Page 273] suspect and rumour, that she was guilty of an un­lawful Commerce with him. But I say once more, they lie and lie a thousand times, whoever they be, that shall presumptuously report, or hint, or so much as think or surmise so base a Calumny.

Why, quoth Sancho, I neither say nor think one way nor t'other not I: Let them that say it eat the Lie, and swallow it with their Bread. If they lay together, they have answer'd for it before now. I never thrust my Nose into other men's Porrige. I don't love to tell a Lie, and find the Truth; that were as bad as to buy and sell, and live by the Loss. Let him that owns the Cow take her by the Tail. Naked I came into the World, and naked must I go out. Many go out for Wool, that come home shorn themselves. Little said is soon amend­ed. It's a Sin to belie the Devil. But misunder­standing brings lies to Town, and there's no pad­locking of People's Mouths; for a close Mouth catches no flies.

Good Heaven, cry'd Don Quixote, what a Ca­talogue of musty Proverbs hast thou run thro! What a heap of frippery Ware hast thou thread­ed together, and how wide from the purpose! Prethee have done, and for the Future let thy whole Study be to serve thy Master; nor do thou concern thy self with things that are out of thy Sphere: And remember this, That whatsoever I do, have done, and shall do, is no more than what is the result of mature Consideration, and strictly conformable to the Laws of Chivalry, which I understand better than all the Knights that ever profess'd Knight-Errantry. Ay, ay Sir, quoth San­cho; but pray, is't a good Law of Chivalry that says we should wander up and down, over Bushes and Bryars, in this rocky Wilderness, where there's [Page 274] neither Foot-path nor Way, running a Wild­goose Chase after a Madman, who, if we light on him again, may chance to make an end of what he has begun; not of his Tale of a roasted Horse I mean, but of be labouring you and me thorow­ly, and squeezing out my Guts at both ends. Once more I prethee have done, said Don Quixote: I have Business of greater Moment than the finding this frantic man; it is not so much that Busi­ness that detains me in this barren and desolate Wild, as a desire I have to perform a certain he­roic Deed that shall immortalize my Fame; and make it fly to the remotest Regions of the habit­able Globe; nay it shall seal and confirm me the most compleat and absolute Knight-Errant in the World. But is not this same Adventure very dangerous, ask'd Sancho? Not at all, replied Don Quixote, tho as Fortune may order it, our Ex­pectations may be baffled by disappointing Acci­dents: but the main thing consists in thy Dili­gence. The Devil it does, quoth Sancho! I mean, said Don Quixote, that if thou return'st with all the speed imaginable from the place whither I de­sign to send thee, my Pain will soon be at an end, and my Glory will begin. And because I do not doubt thy Zeal for advancing thy Master's In­terest, I will no longer conceal my Designs from thee. Know then, my most faithful Squire, that Amadis de Gaule was one of the most accomplish'd Knights-Errant; nay I should not have said he was one of 'em, but the most Perfect, the Chief, and Prince of 'em all. And let not the Belianises nor any others pretend to stand in competition with him for the honour of Priority; for, to my knowledg, should they attempt it, they would be egregiously in the Wrong. I must also inform [Page 275] thee, that when a Painter studies to excel and grow famous in his Art, he takes Care to imitate the best Originals; which Rule ought likewise to be ob­serv'd in all other Arts and Sciences that serve for the Ornament of well regulated Commonwealths. Thus he that is ambitious of gaining the Reputati­on of a Prudent and Patient Man, ought to pro­pose to himself to imitate Ʋlysses, in whose Person Homer has admirably delineated a perfect pattern and prototype of Wisdom and heroic Patience. So Virgil in his Aeneas has given the World a rare Example of filial Piety, and of the Sagacity of a valiant and experienc'd General; both the Greek and the Roman Poets representing their Heroes not such as they really were, but such as they should be, to remain examples of Virtue to en­suing Ages. In the same manner, Amadis hav­ing been the Polar Star and Sun of valiant and amorous Knights, 'tis him we ought to set before our Eye as our great Exemplar, all of us that fight under the Banner of Love and Chivalry; for 'tis certain that the Adventurer who shall emulate him best, shall consequently arrive nearest to the Perfection of Knight-Errantry. Now Sancho, I find that among other Things which most dis­play'd that Champion's Prudence, and Fortitude, his Constancy and Love, and his other heroic Vir­tues, none was more remarkable than his retiring from his disdainful Oriana, to do Penance on the poor Rock, changing his Name into that of The Lovely Obscure, a Title certainly most significant, and adapted to the Life which he then intended to lead. So I am resolv'd to imitate him in this, the rather because I think it a more easy Task than it would be to copy his other Atchievements, such as cleaving the Bodies of Giants, cutting off the [Page 276] heads of Dragons, killing dreadful Monsters, rout­ing whole Armies, dispersing Navies, and break­ing the Force of Magic Spells. And since these mountainous Wilds offer me so fair an Opportu­nity, I see no reason why I should neglect it, and therefore I'll lay hold on it now. Very well, quoth Sancho; but pray, Sir, what is it you mean to do in this Fag-end of the World? Have I not already told thee, answer'd Don Quixote, that I intend to copy Amadis in his Madness, Despair, and Fury? At the same Time I will imitate the valiant Orlando Furioso's Extravagance, when he ran Mad, after he had found the unhappy Tokens of the Fair Angelica's dishonorable Commerce with Medor at the Fountain; at which Time in his frantic Despair, he tore up Trees by the Roots, troubled the Waters of the clear Fountains, slew the Shepherds, destroy'd their Flocks, fir'd their Huts, demolish'd Houses, drove their Horses be­fore him, and committed a hundred thousand o­ther Extravagancies worthy to be recorded in the eternal Register of Fame. Not that I intend how­ever in all things to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotoland, (for he had all those names) but only to make choice of such frantic Effects of his amo­rous Despair as I shall think most essential, and worthy Imitation. Nay perhaps I shall wholly follow Amadis, who without launching out into such destructive and fatal Ravings, and only ex­pressing his Anguish in Complaints and Lamenta­tions, gain'd nevertheless a Renown equal, if not superior to that of the greatest Heroes. Sir, quoth Sancho, I dare say, the Knights who did these Penances had some reason to be mad; but what need have you to be mad too? What Lady has sent you a packing, or so much as toss'd up her [Page 277] Snout at you? When did you ever find that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, did otherwise than she should do with either Turk or Christian? Why, there's the point cry'd Don Quixote, in this con­sists the singular perfection of my Undertaking; for mark me Sancho, for a Knight Errant to run mad upon any just Occasion, is neither strange nor meritorious; no, the rarity is to run mad without a Cause, without the least Constraint or Necessity, Sancho; there's a refin'd and exquisite Passion for you: for thus my Mistress must needs have a vast Idea of my Love, since if it drove me to such a state without any provocation, it must undoubtedly have carried me to the strangest Ex­tremities, had I labour'd under any amorous Mis­fortune. But besides, I have but too just a Mo­tive to give a loose to my raving Grief, consider­ing the long date of my Absence from my ever supreme Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; for as the Shep­herd in Mathias Ambrosio has it,

Then do not lavish any more Time in striving to divert me from so rare, so happy, and so singular an Imitation. I am mad, and will be mad, till thy return with an answer to the Letter which thou must carry from me to the Lady Dulcinea; and if it be as favorable as my unshaken Constan­cy deserves, then my Madness and my Penance shall end; but if I find she repays my Vows and Services with ungrateful Disdain, then will I be emphatically Mad, and scrue up my Thoughts to such an excess of Distraction that I shall be insen­sible of the rigour of my relentless Fair. Thus, [Page 278] what return soever she makes to my Passion, I shall be eas'd one way or other of the anxious Thoughts that now divide my Soul; either enter­taining the welcom News of her reviving Pity with demonstrations of Sense, or else showing my insensibility of her Cruelty by the heigth of my Distraction. But in the mean time, Sancho, tell me, hast thou carefully preserv'd Mambrino's Helmet? I saw thee take it up t'other Day, after that Monster of Ingratitude had spent his Rage in vain endeavours to break it, which by the way, argues the most excellent Temper of the Metal. Body of me, quoth Sancho, Sir Knight of the woful Countenance, I can no longer bear to hear you run on at this rate: Why, this were enough to make any man believe that all your bragging and bouncing of your Knight-Errantry, your win­ning of Kingdoms with a wet Finger, and your bestowing of Islands, and Heaven knows what up­on your Squire, are meer flim flam Stories, and nothing but shams and lies: For who the Devil can hear a man call a Barber's Bason a Helmet, nay and stand to't, and vouch it for four days to­gether, and not think him that says it to be stark Mad, or without Guts in his Brains? I have the Bason safe enough here in my Pouch, and I'll get it mended for my own Use, if ever I've the luck to get home to my Wife and Chil­dren. Now as I love bright Arms, cry'd Don Quixote, I swear thou art the shallowest, silliest, and most stupid Fellow of a Squire that ever I heard or read of in my Life. How is it possible for thee to be so dull of Apprehension, as not to have learnt in all this Time that thou hast been in my Service, that all the Actions and Adventures of us Knights-errant seem to be mere Chimeras, [Page 279] Follies, and Impertinences? Not that they are so indeed, but either thro the officious Care, or else thro the Malice and Envy of those Enchanters that always assist or persecute us unseen, and by their fascinations change the appearances of our Actions into what they please, according to their love or hate. This is the very reason why that which I plainly perceive to be Mambrino's Helmet seems to thee to be only a Barber's Bason, and perhaps another Man may take it to be something else. And in this I can never too much admire the Prudence of the Sage who espouses my In­terests, in making that inestimable Helmet seem a Bason; for did it appear in its proper Shape, its tempting Value would raise me as many Enemies as there are Men in the Universe, all eager to snatch from me so desirable a Prize. Keep it safe then, Sancho, for I have no need of it at present; far from it, I think to put off my Armour, and strip my self as naked as I came out of my Mo­ther's Womb, in case I determine to imitate Orlando's Fury rather than the Penance of A­madis.

This Discourse brought 'em to the foot of a high Rock that stood by it self, as if it had been hewn out and divided from the rest; by the skirt of it glided a purling Stream that softly took its winding Course thro an adjacent Meadow. The verdant freshness of the Grass, the number of wild Trees, Plants, and Flowers that feasted the Eye in that pleasant Solitude, invited the Knight of the woful Countenance to make choice of it to perform his amorous Penance; and therefore as soon as he had let his ravish'd Sight rove a while o're the scatter'd beauties of the Place, he took possession of it with the following Speech, as if [Page 280] he had utterly lost the small share of Reason he had left. Behold, O Heavens, cry'd he, the place which an unhappy Lover has chosen to bemoan the deplorable State to which you have reduc'd him; here shall my flowing Tears swell the liquid Veins of this Christal Rill, and my deep Sighs perpetually move the Leaves of these shady Trees, the ever-renew'd Instances of the Torments which my throbbing Heart endures. Ye Rural Deities, whoever ye be, that make these unfrequented De­serts your Abode, hear the Complaints of an un­fortunate Lover, whom a tedious Absence, and some slight impressions of jealous Mistrust have driven to these regions of Despair, to bewail his rigor­ous Destiny, and deplore the distracting Cruelty of that ungrateful Fair who is the perfection of all humane Beauty. Ye pitying Napaean Nymphs and Dryades, silent Inhabitants of the Woods and Groves, assist me to lament my Fate, or at least attend the mournful Story of my Woes; so may no designing beastly Satyrs, those just Objects of your hate, ever have power to interrupt your Rest.— Oh Dulcinea del Toboso! Thou Sun that turn'st my gloomy Nights to Day! Glory of my Pain! North-Star of my Travels, and reigning Planet that controul'st my Heart! Pity I conjure thee the unparallel'd Distress to which thy Absence has reduc'd the faithfullest of Lovers, and grant to my Fidelity that kind Return which it so just­ly claims! So may indulgent Fate shower on thee all the Blessings thou ever can'st desire, or Heavens grant! — Ye lonesome Trees, under whose spreading Branches I come to linger out the gloomy shadow of a tedious Being; let the soft Language of your rustling Leaves, and the kind nodding of your springing Boughs satisfy me that I [Page 281] am welcom to your shady Harbours. O thou my trusty Squire, the inseparable Companion of my Adventures, diligently observe what thou shalt see me do in this lonely Retreat, that thou may'st inform the dear Cause of my Ruin with every particular. As he said this, he alighted, and pre­sently taking of his Horse's Bridle and Saddle, go, Rozinante, said he, giving the Horse a clap on the Posteriors; he that has lost his Freedom gives thee thine, thou Steed as renown'd for thy extraordi­nary Actions as for thy Misfortunes: go rear thy awful Front where e're thou pleasest, secure that neither the Hippogriphon of Astolpho, nor the re­nown'd Frontino which Bradamante purchased at so high a Price, could ever be thought thy Equals.

Now cry'd Sancho, a sliding knot choak him that sav'd me the trouble of sending my Ass to Grass too; poor thing, had I him here he should not want two or three claps o're the Buttocks, nor a fine Speech in his praise neither, while I took off his Pannel. But stay, were he here, what need would there be to strip him of his Harness? Alas, poor Creature, he never had any thing to do with these mad pranks of Love no more than my self, who was his Master, when Fortune pleas'd. But d'ye hear me, now I think on't, Sir Knight of the woful Countenance, if your Wor­ship is resolv'd to be Mad and send me away in good earnest, we must e'en clap the Saddle again on Rozinante's Back; for to tell you the Truth I'm but a sorry Footman, and if I don't ride home I don't know when I shall be able to come to you again. Do as thou think'st fit for that, Sancho, answer'd Don Quixote, for I design thou shalt set forward about three Days hence. In the mean [Page 282] while thou shalt be a witness of what I will do for my Lady's sake, that thou may'st give her an account of it. Bless my Eyesight, quoth Sancho, what can I see more than I've seen al­ready? Thou hast seen nothing yet, answer'd Don Quixote, thou must see me throw away my Armour, tear my Cloths, knock my Head a­gainst the Rocks, and do a thousand other Things of that kind that will fill thee with Asto­nishment. For goodness sake, Sir, quoth San­cho, take heed how you quarrel with these un­gracious Rocks, you may chance to get such a crack o' the Crown at the very first Rap as may spoil a rare Madman, and a special Peni­tent to boot, all at one dash. No, I don't like that way by no means; if you must needs be knocking your Noddle, to go thro' stitch with this ugly Job, seeing 'tis all but a mock, or as it were between Jest and Earnest, why can't you as well play your Tricks on some­thing that's softer than these unconscionable Stones? you may run your Head against the Water, or rather against Cotton, or the stuffing of Rozi­nante's Saddle, and then let me alone with the rest: I'll be sure to tell my Lady Dulcinea that you bebump'd your Poll against the point of a Rock that's harder than a Diamond.

I thank thee for thy good Will, dear Sancho, replyed Don Quixote. But I assure thee that all these seeming Extravagancies which I must run thro are no Jests. Far from it, they must be all perform'd seriously and solemnly; for otherwise we shou'd transgress the Laws of Chivalry, that forbid us to tell Lies upon pain of Degradation: now to pretend to do one thing, and effect ano­ther, is an Evasion which I esteem to be as bad as [Page 283] Lying. Therefore the Blows which I must give my self on the Head ought to be real, substantial, sound ones, without any Trick or mental Reserva­tion; for which reason I wou'd have thee leave me some Lint and Salve, since Fortune has de­priv'd us of the soveraign Balsam which we lost. 'Twas a worse Loss to lose the Ass, quoth Sancho, for with him we've lost Bag and Baggage, Lint and all. But no more of your damn'd Drench, if you love me; the very thoughts on 't are enough not only to turn my Stomach, but my Soul, such a rumbling I feel in my Wemb at the name on't. Then as for the three Days you'd have me loyter here to mind your mad Tricks, you had as good make account they're already over; for I hold 'em for done, unsight unseen, and will tell Won­ders to my Lady: wherefore write you your Let­ter, and send me going with all haste; for let me be hang'd if I don't long already to be back to take you out of this Purgatory wherein I leave you.

Dost thou only call it Purgatory, Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote? call it Hell rather, or something worse, if there be in Nature a term expressive of a more wretched state. Nay, not so neither, quoth Sancho, I wou'd not call it Hell; because as I heard our Parson say, There's no Retention out of Hell. Retention, cry'd Don Quixot! what do'st thou mean by that word? Why, quoth San­cho, Retention is Retention, it is, that whoso­ever is in Hell never comes, nor can come out of it. Which shan't be your Case this Bout, if I can stir my Heels, and have but Spurs to tickle Rozinante's Flank, till I come to my Lady Dulci­nea; for I will tell her such strange things of your Maggotty Tricks, your Folly and your [Page 284] Madness, for indeed they are no better, that I'll lay my Head to a hazel Nut, I'll make her as supple as a Glove, tho I found her at first as tough hearted as Cork; and when I've wheedled an An­swer out of her all full of sweet hony Words, away will I whisk it back to you cutting the Air, as swift as a Witch upon a Broomstick, and free you out of your Purgatory; for a Purgatory I will have it to be, in spight of Hell; nor shall you gainsay me in that I fancy; for, as I've told you before, there's some hopes of your Retention out of this place.

Well, be it so, said the Knight of the Woful Countenance; but how shall I do to write this Letter? And the Order for the three Asses, ad­ded Sancho? I'll not forget it, answer'd Don Quixote; But since we have here no Paper, I must be oblig'd to write on the Leaves or Bark of Trees, or on Wax, as they did in antient Times; yet now I consider on't, vve are here as ill provid­ed vvith Wax as vvith Paper. But stay, now I remember, I have Cardenio's Pocket-Book, vvhich will supply that vvant in this Exigence, and then thou shalt get the Letter fairly transcrib'd at the first Village where thou canst meet with a School-master; or for vvant of a Schoolmaster, thou may'st get the Clark of the Parish to do it: but by no means give it to any Notary or Lawyer to be written out, for they commonly write such confounded hands, that the Devil himself wou'd scarce be able to read it. Well, quoth Sancho, but vvhat shall I do for vvant of your Name to it? Why, answer'd Don Quixote, Amadis never us'd to subscribe his Letters. Ay, reply'd Sancho, but the Bill of Exchange for the three Asses must be sign'd, and shou'd I get it copy'd out after­wards, [Page 285] they'd say 'tis not your hand, and so I shall go vvithout the Asses. I'll vvrite and sign the Order for 'em in the Table-Book, answer'd Don Quixote; and as soon as my Niece shall see the hand, she'll never scruple the delivery of the Asses: And as for the Love-Letter, when thou get'st it transcrib'd, thou must get it thus under­written; Your's till Death, The Knight of the Woful Countenance. 'Tis no matter whether the Letter and the Subscription be vvritten by the same hand or no; for as I remember, Dulcinea can nei­ther read nor write, nor did she ever see any of my Letters, nay not so much as any of my Writ­ing in her life: For my Love and her's have al­ways been purely Platonic, never extending be­yond the lawful Bounds of a modest Look; and that too so very seldom, that I dare safely swear, that tho for these twelve Years she has been dearer to my Soul than Light to my Eyes, yet I ne­ver saw her four times in my life, and perhaps of those few times that I have seen her, she has scarce perceiv'd once that I beheld her. So strictly and so discreetly Lorenzo Corchuelo her Father, and Al­donza Nogales her Mother have kept and educated her. Heigh-day, quoth Sancho! Did you ever hear the like! And is my Lady Dulcinea del To­boso, at last the Daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, she that's otherwise call'd Aldonza Lorenzo? The same, answer'd Don Quixote; and tis she that me­rits to be the Sovereign of the Universe. U [...]s­diggers quoth Sancho, I know her full well; 'tis a strapping Wench y' Faith, and pitches the Bar vvith e're a lusty young Fellow in our Parish. By [...]he Mass 'tis a notable strong-built, sizable, stur­ [...]y, manly Lass, and one that will keep her Chin [...]ut of the Mire I vvarrant her; nay and hold the [Page 286] best Knight-Errant to't that vvears a head, if e'er he venture upon her. Body o' me, vvhat a Voice she has vvhen she sets up her Throat! I saw her one day pearch'd up o' top of our Steeple to call to some Plough-jobbers that labour'd in a fallow Field; and tho they vvere half a League off, they heard her as plain as if they had been in the Church-yard under her. The best of her is, that she's neither coy nor frumpish; she's a tractable Lass and fit for a Courtier, for she'll play with you like a Kitten, and jibes and jokes at every body. And now in good truth, Sir Knight of the Woful Countenance, you may e'en play as many Gambols as you please; you may run mad, you may hang your self for her sake, there's no body but will say you e'en took the wisest course, tho the Devil himself should carry you away a pick­apack. Now am I e'en wild to be gone, tho 'twere for nothing else but to see her, for I have not seen her this many a day; I fancy I shall hardly know her again, for a Woman's Face strangely alters by being always in the Sun, and drudging and moiling in the open Fields. Well, I must needs own I've been mightily mistaken all along: for I durst have sworn this Lady Dulcinea had been some great Princess with whom you were in love, and such a one as deserv'd those rare Gifts you bestow'd on her, as the Biscayan, the Gally-slaves, and many others that for ought I know you may have sent her before I was your Squire. I can't chuse but laugh to think how my Lady Aldonza Lorenzo (my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I shou'd have said) wou'd behave h [...]r self shou'd any of those Men which you have sent, or may send to her, chance to go and fall down o' their Marrow-bones before her: For 'tis ten to one they may [Page 287] happen to find her a combing of Flax. or thresh­ing in the Barn, and then how finely balk'd they'll be; as sure as I'm alive they must needs think the Devil ow'd 'em a shame, and she her self will but flout 'em, and mayhap be somewhat net­led at it.

I have often told thee, Sancho, said Don Quix­ote, and I tell thee again, that thou ought'st to bri­dle or immure thy sawcy prating Tongue; for tho thou art but a dull-headed Dunce, yet now and then thy ill-manner'd Jests bite too sharp. But that I may at once make thee sensible of thy Folly and my Discretion, I will tell thee a short Story. A handsom, brisk, young rich Widow, happen'd to fall in Love with a well-set, lustyMotillon, a Lay-Brother, or Servant in a Convent or College. Lay-Brother. His Su­perior hearing of it, took occasion to go to her, and said to her, by way of charitable Admonition, I mightily wonder, Madam, how a Lady of your Merit, so admir'd for Beauty and for Sense, and withal so Rich, cou'd make so ill a choice, and doat on a mean, silly, despicable Fel­low, as I hear you do, while we have in our House so many Masters of Art, Batchelors and Doctors of Divinity, among whom your Lady­ship might pick and chuse. But she soon answer'd the officious grave Gentleman, Sir, said she with a smile, you are much mistaken, and think alto­gether after the old out-of-fashion-way, if you i­magine I have made so ill a choice; for tho you fancy the Man's a Fool, yet as to what I take him for, he knows as much, or rather more Philosophy than Aristotle. So, Sancho, as to the use which I make of the Lady Dulcinea, she is equal to the greatest Princesses in the World. Prethee tell me, [Page 288] Dost thou think the Poets, who every one of 'em celebrate the Praises of some Lady or other, had all real Mistresses? Or that the Amarillis's, the Phillis's, the Sylvia's, the Diana's, the Galatea's, and the like, which you shall find in so many Poems, Romances, Songs and Ballads, upon eve­ry Stage, and even in every Barber's Shop, were Creatures of Flesh and Blood? No, no, never think it, for I dare assure thee, the greatest part of 'em were nothing but the meer Imaginations of the Poets, for a ground-work to exercise their Wits upon, and to give the World occasion to look on the Authors as Men of an amorous and gal­lant Disposition: and so 'tis sufficient for me to imagine that Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and chast; as for her Birth and Parentage, they con­cern me but little; for there's no need to make an enquiry about a Woman's Pedigree, as there is of us Men when some Badg of Honour is bestow­ed on us. And so she's to me the greatest Prin­cess in the World: For thou ought'st to know, Sancho, if thou know'st it not already, that there are but two things that chiefly excite us to love a Woman, an attractive Beauty, and an unspotted Fame. Now those two Endowments are happily reconcil'd in Dulcinea; for as for the one, she has not her equal, and few can vie with her in the other: But to cut off all Objections at once, I imagin that all I say of her is really so, with­out the least addition or diminution: I fan­cy her to be just such as I wou'd have her for Beauty and Quality. Helen cannot stand in competition with her; Lucretia cannot rival her, and all the Heroins which Antiquity has to boast, whether Greeks, Romans, or Barbarians, are at once out-done by her incomparable Perfections. [Page 289] Therefore let the World say what it will; shou'd the ignorant and vulgar foolishly censure me, I please my self with the assurances I have of the approbation of Men of the strictest Morals, and the nicest Judgment. Sir, quoth Sancho, I knock under: You've Reason o' your side in all you say, and I own my self an Ass. Nay, I'm an Ass to talk of an Ass; for 'tis ill talking of Hal­ters i'th House of a Man that was hang'd. But where's the Letter all this while, that I may be jogging? With that Don Quixote pull'd out the Table-Book, and retiring a little aside, he ve­ry seriously began to write the Letter; which he had no sooner finish'd but he call'd Sancho, and order'd him to listen while he read it over to him, that he might carry it as well in his Memo­ry as in the Pocket-Book, in case he shou'd have the ill luck to lose it by the way; for he fear'd the worse of his malignant Fortune. But, Sir, quoth Sancho, tear the Book, and give me two or three Copies, and then I'll be sure to deliver my Message safe enough I warrant ye. For 'tis a folly to think I can ever get it by heart; alas my memory is so bad, that many times I forget my own Name. But yet for all that read it out to me, I beseech you, for I've a hugeous mind to hear it, I dare say 'tis as fine as tho 'twere in print. Well then listen, said Don Quixote.

Now may I never stir, quoth Sancho, if ever heard a finer Thing in my born days! how neat­ly and roundly you tell her your mind, and how cleverly you brought in at last, The Knight of [Page 291] the Woful Countenance. Well, I say't again in good earnest, you're a Devil at every thing; there's no kind of thing in the varsal World but what you can turn your hand to. A Man ought to have some knowledg of every thing, answer'd Don Quixote, if he wou'd be duly qualify'd for the Employment I profess. Well then, quoth Sancho, do so much as write the Warrant for the three Asses, on the other side of that leaf; and pray write it mighty plain, that they may know 'tis your hand at first sight. I will, said Don Quixote, and with that he wrote it accordingly, and then read it in this form.

'Tis as it shou'd be, quoth Sancho, there only wants your Name at the bottom. There's no need to set my name, answer'd Don Quixote; I'll only set the two first Letters of it, and 'twill be as valid as if 'twere written at length, tho 'twere not only for three Asses, but for three hundred. I dare take your Worship's word, quoth Sancho; and now I'm going to saddle Rozinante, and then you shall give me your Blessing; for I in­tend to set out presently, without seeing any of your mad Tricks; for I am so sure of your going thorow-stitch with your Penance, that I dare swear to more than will serve your turn. Nay, said [Page 292] Don Quixote, I will have thee stay a while San­cho, and see me stark naked; 'tis also absolutely necessary thou shou'dst see me practise some twenty or thirty mad Gambols; I shall have dis­patch'd 'em in less than half an hour: and when thou hast been an Eye-witness of that Essay, thou mayst with a safe Conscience swear thou hast seen me play a thousand raving Tricks; for I dare assure thee for thy incouragement, thou never canst exceed the number of those I shall perform. Good Sir, quoth Sancho, as you love me don't let me stay to see you naked, 'twill grieve me so to the heart, that I shall cry my eyes out, and I have blubber'd and howl'd but too much since yesternight for the loss of my poor Ass; my Head's so sore with it, I a'n't able to cry any longer: But if you'll needs have me see some of your Anticks, pray do 'em in your Clothes out of hand, and the first that come into your Head; for the sooner I go, the sooner I shall come back, and the way to be gone is not to stay here. I long to bring you an Answer to your Heart's content: and I'll be sure to do't, or let the Lady Dulcinea look to't; for if she dos not do as she shou'd do, may old Nick toss me in his Blanket, if I don't make her give up an answer to my mind, with good kicks o'th' Guts, and swinging Fisticuffs on her Jobbernol: For 'tis not to be endur'd, that such a notable Knight-Errant as your Worship is shou'd thus run out of his Wits without Rime or Reason for such a—Odsbobs, I know what I know, she had not best provoke me to say the rest: if she dos, I shall out with it, and tell her a piece of my mind. In troth, murder will out. I'll make her know her Driver with a wan­nion. I'll handle her without Mittius: She shall [Page 293] find me as crusty as she's hard bak'd: She must not think to put tricks upon Travellers.

I protest Sancho, said Don Quixote, I think thou art grown as mad as my self. Nay, not so mad neither, reply'd Sancho, but somewhat more angry. But talk no more of that: let's see, how will you do for Victuals when I'm gon? Do you mean to do like t' other Madman yonder, rob upon the high way, and snatch the Goatherds Victuals from 'em by main force? Never let that trouble thy unmannerly Brain, reply'd Don Quixote; for tho I had here all the Dainties that can feast a luxurious Palat, I wou'd feed upon nothing but the Herbs and Fruits which this Wilderness will afford me; for the singularity of my present Task consists in fasting and half starv­ing my self, and in the performance of some other Discipline. But there's another thing come into my head, quoth Sancho: how shall I do to find the way hither again, 'tis such a by-place? Take good notice of it beforehand, said Don Quixote, and I'll indeavour to keep hereabouts till thy return. Besides, about the time when I may reasonably expect thee back, I'll be sure to watch on the top of yonder high Rock for thy coming. But now I bethink my self of a better Expedient; thou shalt cut down a good number of Boughs, and strew 'em in the way as thou rid'st along, till thou get'st to the Plains, and this will serve thee to find me again at thy return, like Perseus's Clue to get out of the Labyrinth of Crete.

I'll go about it out of hand, quoth Sancho; with that he went and cut down a Bundle of Boughs, then came and ask'd his Master's Blessing, and after a shower of Tears shed on both sides, mounted Rozinante, which Don Quixote very se­riously [Page 294] recommended to his care, charging him to be as tender of that excellent Steed as of his own Person. After that he set forward toward the Plains, strewing several Boughs as he rid according to order. His Master had importun'd him to stay and see him do two or three of his antic Postures before he went, but he cou'd not prevail with him: However before he was got out of sight he consider'd of it, and rode back. Sir, quoth he, I've thought better of it, and I believe I had best take your advice, that I may swear with a safe conscience I've seen you play your mad tricks; therefore I wou'd see you do one of 'em at least, tho I think I've seen you do a very great one al­ready, I mean your staying by your self in this Desert.

I had advised thee right, said Don Quixote, and therefore stay but while a Man may repeat the Creed, and I will shew thee what thou woud'st see. With that, slipping off his Breeches, and stripping himself naked to the waste, he gave two or three frisks in the Air, and then pitching on his hands, he fetch'd his heels over his head twice together; and, as he tumbled with his Legs aloft, discover'd such Rarities, that Sancho e'en made haste to turn his Horse's Head, that he might no longer see 'em, and rode away fully sa­tisfy'd that he might swear his Master was mad; and so we will leave him to make the best of his way, till his return, which will be more speedy than might be imagin'd.

CHAP. XII. A Continuation of the refin'd Extravagan­cies by which the Gallant Knight of La Mancha chose to express his Love in the Sierra Morena.

THE History relates that as soon as the Knight of the Woful Countenance saw himself a­lone, after this first exercise of frisking and tum­bling, the merry Prelude to his amorous Penance, he ascended to the top of a high Rock, and there began seriously to consider with himself what Re­solution to take in that nice Dilemma which had already so perplex'd his mind; that is, whether he should imitate Orlando in his extraordinary Fury, or Amadis in his melancholic Extravagancies. To which purpose, discoursing with himself, I do not much wonder, said he, at Orlando's being so very valiant, considering he was inchanted in such a manner, that he cou'd not be slain but by the thrust of a Pin thro the bottom of his Foot, which he sufficiently secur'd, always wearing seven iron Soles to his Shoes: and yet this avail d him nothing against Bernardo del Carpio, who under­standing his Enchantment, squeez'd him to death between his arms at Ronce valles. But setting aside his Valour, let us examine his madness; for that he was mad, is an unquestionable truth, nor is it less certain that his Frenzy was occasion'd by the [Page 296] assurances he had that the fair Angelica had resign'd her self up to the unlawful Embraces of Medor, that young Moor with curl'd Locks, who was Page to Agramant. Now after all, seeing he was too well convinc'd of his Lady's Infidelity, 'tis not to be admir'd he shou'd run mad. But how can I imitate him in his Furys, if I cannot imitate him in their occasion? For I dare swear, my Dulcinea del Toboso never saw such a Moor since she first beheld the Light, and she's now the very same she was when her Mother blest the World with her Birth: So that I shou'd do her a great Injury shou'd I entertain any dishonourable Thoughts of her Behaviour, and launch into that wild Ocean of madness that toss'd Orlando's Soul. On the other side, I find that Amadis de Gaule, without punishing himself with such a Distraction, or ex­pressing his Resentments in so boisterous and rav­ing a manner, got a, great a Reputation for be­ing a Lover as any one whatsoever: For what I find in History as to his abandoning himself to sorrow is only this: He found himself disdain'd, his Lady Oriana having charg'd him to get out of her sight, and not presume to appear in her presence till she gave him leave; and this was the true Reason why he retir'd to the poor Rock with the Hermit, where he gave up himself wholly to grief, and wept a Deluge of Tears, till pitying Heaven at last commiserating his Af­fliction sent him relief in the height of his An­guish. Now then since this is true, as I know it is, what need have I to tear off my Clothes, to rend and root up these harmless Trees, or trouble the clear Water of these Brooks, that must give me Drink when I am thirsty? No, long live the [Page 297] Memory of Amadis de Gaule, and let him be the great Exemplar which Don Quixote de la Mancha chuses to imitate in all things that will admit of a Parallel. So may it be said of the living Copy as was said of the dead Original, that if he did not perform great things, yet no Man was more ambitious of undertaking 'em than he: And tho I am not disdain'd nor discard­ed by my Dulcinea, yet 'tis sufficient that I am absent from her. Then 'tis resolv'd! And now ye famous Actions of the great Amadis, occur to my remembrance, and be my trusty guides to fol­low his Example. This said, he call'd to mind that the chief exercise of that Hero in his Re­treat was Prayer: To which purpose our mo­dern Amadis presently went and made himself a Rosary of Gauls or Acorns instead of Beads; but he was extreamly troubled for want of an Hermit to hear his Confession, and comfort him in his Affliction. However he entertain'd himself with his amorous Contemplations, walking up and down the Meadow, and writing some Poetical Conceptions in the smooth Sand, and upon the Bark of Trees, all of 'em expressive of his Sorrows, and the Praises of Dulcinea. But unhappily none were found entire and legible but these STANZA'S that follow.

[Page 299]This ridiculous Addition of del Toboso made those who had found those Verses afterwards laugh hear­tily; and they imagin'd that when Don Quixote made them, he was afraid that those who should happen to read 'em would not understand on whom they were made, shou'd he omit to mention the Place of his Mistress's Birth and Residence: and this was indeed the true Reason, as he himself af­terwards confess'd. With this Employment did our disconsolate Knight beguile some tedious hours. Sometimes also he express'd his Sorrows in Prose, sigh'd to the Winds, and call'd upon the Sylvan Gods, the Fauns, the Naiades, the Nymphs of adjoining Groves, and the mournful Eccho, im­ploring their Attention and Condolement with re­peated Supplications: at other Times he employ'd himself in gathering Herbs for the support of languishing Nature, which decay'd so fast, what with this slender Diet, and what with his studied anxiety and intenseness of Thinking, that had Sancho stay'd but three Weeks from him, where­as by good Fortune he staid but three Days, the Knight of the woful Countenance wou'd have been reduc'd to that meager and dismal Conditi­on, that his very Mother wou'd never have known the Child of her own Womb.

But now 'tis necessary we shou'd leave him a­while to his Sighs, his Sobs, and his amorous Ex­postulations, and see how Sancho Panca behav'd himself in his Embassy. He made all the haste he cou'd to get out of the Mountain, and then taking the direct Road to Toboso, the next Day he arriv'd near the Inn where he had been toss'd in a Blanket. Scarce had he descry'd the fatal Walls, but a sud­den shivering seiz'd his Bones, and he fancied him­self to be again dancing in the Air; so that he had [Page 300] a good mind to have rode further before he bait­ed, tho 'twere Dinner time, and his Mouth water'd strangely at the thoughts of a hot bit of Meat, the ra­ther as he had liv'd altogether upon cold Victuals for a long while. This greedy longing drew him near the Inn in spight of his aversion to the Place; but yet when he came to the Gate, he had not the Cou­rage to go in, but stop'd there, not knowing whether he had best enter or no. While he sate musing, two men happen'd to come out, and believing they knew him, look, cry'd one to the other, is not that Sancho Panca, whom the House-keeper told us her Master had inveigled to go along with him? The same, answer'd the other; and more than that, he rides on Don Quixote's Horse. Now these two happen'd to be the Curate and the Bar­ber, who had brought his Books to a Trial, and pass'd Sentence on 'em: Therefore they had no sooner said this, but they call'd to Sancho, and ask'd him where he had left his Master? The trusty Squire presently knew 'em, and having no mind to discover his Master's Condition, told 'em his Master was taken up with Business of great Con­sequence at a certain Place, which he durst not discover for his Life. No, no, Sancho Panca, cry'd the Barber, you must not think to put us off with a flim flam. Story; if you won't tell us where he is, we shall believe you have murder'd him and robb'd him of his Horse; therefore ei­ther satisfy us where you've left him, or we'll have you lay'd by the Heels. Look you Neighbour, quoth Sancho, I a'n't afraid of Words d'ye see; I am neither a Thief nor a Manslayer; I kill no Bo­dy, so no Body kill me; I leave every man to fall by his own Fortune, or by the hand of him that made him. As for my Master, I left him a frisk­ing [Page 301] and doing Penance in the midst of you Mountain to his heart's Content. After this, with­out any further entreaty, he gave 'em a full Ac­count of that Business, and of all their Adventures, how he was then going from his Master to carry a Letter to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, Lorenzo Corchuelo's Daughter, with whom he was up to the ears in Love. The Curate and the Barber stood amaz'd hearing all these particulars; and tho they already knew Don Quixote's madness but too well, they wonder'd more and more at the encrease of it, and at so strange a Cast and variety of Extra­vagance. Then they desir'd Sancho to show 'em the Letter: He told 'em 'twas written in a Pocket-Book, and that his Master had order'd him to get it fairly transcrib'd upon Paper at the next Village he should come at. Whereupon the Curate pro­mising to write it out very fairly himself, Sancho put his Hand in his Bosom to give him the Table-Book; but tho he fumbled a great while for't, he could not find it there, he look'd, and look'd a­gain, but it had been all in vain, tho he had search'd till Doom's-day; for he came away from Don Quixote without it. This put him into a cold Sweat, and made him turn as pale as Death; he fell a searching all his Clothes, turn'd his Pockets in­side outwards, fumbled in his Bosom again: but being at last convinc'd he had it not about him, he fell a raving and stamping, and cursing himself like a Madman; he rent his Beard from his Chin with both hands, befisted his own forgetful Scull, and his blubber Cheeks, and gave himself a bloody Nose in a Moment. The Curate and the Barber ask'd him what was the matter with him, and why he punish'd himself at that strange rate? I deserve it all, quoth Sancho, like a buffle headed, cockle [Page 302] brain'd Moon-calf as I am, for losing at one Cast no less than three Asses, whereof the least was worth a Castle. How so, quoth the Barber? Why, cry'd Sancho, I've lost that same Table-Book, where­in was written Dulcinea's Letter, and a Bill of Exchange drawn by my Master upon his Niece for three of the five Asses which he has at home; and with that he told 'em how he had lost his own. But the Vicar cheer'd him up, and promis'd him to get him another Bill of Exchange from his Mas­ter, written upon Paper, whereas that in the Ta­ble Book not being in due form, would not have been accepted. With that Sancho took Courage, and told 'em if it were so, he car'd not a straw for the loss of Dulcinea's Letter, for he knew it almost all by Rote. Then prethee let's hear it, said the Barber, and we'll see and write it. In order to this Sancho paus'd and began to study for the words; presently he fell a scratching his thick Scull, he stood first upon one Leg, then upon another, gap'd upon the Skies, scowl'd upon the Ground, knit his Brows, rub'd his Forehead, lay'd one hand upon his Eyes, and bit his Nails with the other; and at last after he had gnaw'd almost half of 'em, and kept the Curate and the Barber a long while waiting to hear this rare Letter repeated; ods­nigs, cry'd he, good Mr. Doctor, the Devil's in't! May I be choak'd if I can remember a word of this confounded Letter, but only that there was at the beginning, High and subterrane Lady; So­veraign or superhuman Lady, you wou'd say, quoth the Barber. Ay Gaffer, quoth Sancho, you're in the right—But stay now, I think I can remember some of that which follow'd; ho! I have it, I ha't now—He that is wounded, and wants Sleep, sends you the Dagger — which he wants himself — that [Page 303] stabb'd him to the Heart—and the Hurtman does kiss your Worship's Hands—with my Desire—sweet­est Dulcinea del Toboso; and thus he went on rambling a good while with I don't know what more of fainting and Relief, and sinking, till at last he ended with Yours till Death, The Knight of the Woful Countenance. The Curate and the Bar­ber were mightily pleas'd with Sancho's excellent Memory, insomuch that they desir'd him to re­peat the Letter twice or thrice more, that they might also get it by heart, and write it down, which Sancho did very freely; but, every time, he made many odd Alterations and Additions, as pleasant as the first. Then he told 'em many other Things of his Master, but spoke not a word of his own being toss'd in a Blanket at that very Inn: He al­so told 'em that if he brought a kind Answer from the Lady Dulcinea, his Master wou'd forthwith set out to see and make himself an Emperor, or at least a King; for so they two had agreed between themselves, he said, and that after all 'twas a mighty easy matter for his Master to become one, such was his Prowess and the strength of his Arm. Which being done, his Master wou'd marry him to one of the Empresse's Damsels, and that fine Lady was to be Heiress to a large County on the main Land, but not to any Island or Islands, for he was weary of 'em. Poor Sancho spoke all this so seriously, and so feelingly, ever and anon rub­bing his Nose, and stroking his Beard, that now the Curate and the Barber were more surpriz'd than they were before, considering the prevalent Influences of Don Quixote's Folly upon that silly credulous Fellow. However they did not think it worth their while to undeceive him yet, seeing this was only a harmless Delusion that might di­vert [Page 304] 'em a while; and therefore they exhorted him to pray for his Master's Health and long Life, see­ing it was no impossible thing but that he might in time become an Emperor by his Valour, a Cardinal, or an Archbishop at least by his Pru­dence.

But pray, good Mr. Doctor, ask'd Sancho, shou'd my Master have no mind to be an Emperor, and take a fancy to be an Archbishop, I wou'd fain know what your Archbishops-Errant are wont to give their Squires? Why, answer'd the Curate, they use to give 'em some Parsonage, or Prebend­ary, or some such other Benefice or Church-Living: which, with the profits of the Altar, and other Fees, brings 'em in a handsom Revenue. Ay, but says Sancho, to put in for that, the Squire must be a single man, and know how to answer and assist at Mass at least; and how shall I do then, seeing I have the ill luck to be sped? nay and besides I don't so much as know the first Letter of my Christ-cross-row? What will become of me shou'd it come into my Master's Head to make himself an Archbishop, and not an Emperor, as 'tis the Custom of Knights-Errant? Don't let that trou­ble thee, friend Sancho, said the Barber, we'll talk to him about it, and advise him, nay urge it to him as a point of Conscience to be an Em­peror, and not an Archbishop, which will be bet­ter for him, by reason he has more Courage than Learning.

Troth, I'm of your Mind, quoth Sancho, tho he's such a Head-piece that I dare say he can turn himself to any thing. Ne'ertheless I mean to make it the burden of my Prayers, that Heaven may di­rect him to that which is best for him, and what may enable him to reward me most. You speak like a [Page 305] wise man, and a good Christian, said the Curate: But all we have to do at present, is to see how we shall do to get your Master to give over that se­vere unprofitable Penance which he has undertaken. And therefore let's go in to consider about it, and also to eat our Dinner, for I fancy 'tis ready by this Time. Do you two go in, if you please, quoth Sancho, but as for me I had rather stay with­out, and anon I'll tell you why I don't care to go in a Doors: however pray send me out a bit of hot Victuals to eat here, and some Provender for Rozinante. With that they went in, and a while after the Barber brought him out his Dinner, and returning to the Curate they consulted how to com­pass their Design. At last the latter luckily be­thought himself of an Expedient that seem'd most likely to take, as exactly fitting Don Quixote's Hu­mour; which was, that he shou'd disguise himself in the habit of a Damsel-Errant, and the Barber shou'd alter his Dress as well as he cou'd, so as to pass for his Squire, or Gentleman-Usher. In that Equipage, added he, we will go to Don Quix­ote; and feigning my self to be a distress'd Lam­sel, I will beg a Boon of him, which he as a va­lorous Knight-Errant, will not fail to promise me. By this means I will engage him to go with me to redress a very great Injury done me by a false and discourteous Knight; beseeching him not to desire to see my Face, nor to ask me any thing about my Circumstances till he has reveng'd me on that wicked Knight. This bait will take, I dare en­gage, and by this Stratagem we'll decoy him back to his own House, where we'll try to cure him of his romantic Frenzy.

CHAP. XIII. How the Curat and the Barber put their De­sign in execution: With other things wor­thy to be recorded in this Important History.

THE Curat's Project was so well lik'd by the Barber, that they instantly put it into pra­ctice. First, They borrow'd a compleat Wo­man's Apparel of the Hostess, leaving her in Pawn a new Cassock of the Curat's; and the Barber made himself a long Beard with a grizled Ox's Tail, in which the Innkeeper us'd to hang his Combs. The Hostess being desirous to know what they intended to do with those things, the Curat gave her a short account of Don Quixote's Distraction, and their Design: Whereupon the Innkeeper and his Wife presently guest this was their Romantick Knight that made the precious Balsam; and accordingly they told 'em the whole story of Don Quixote's lodging there, and of Sancho's being toss'd in a Blanket: Which done, the Hostess readily fitted out the Curat at such a rate, that 'twou'd have pleas'd any one to have seen him; for she dress'd him up in a Cloth Gown trimm'd with Borders of black Velvet, e­very, one the breadth of a Span, all pink'd and jagg'd, and a pair of green Velvet Bodice, with Sleeves of the same, and fac'd with white Satin; which Accoutrem [...]nts probably had been in fashi­on [Page 307] in old Queen Bamba's Days. The Curat would not let her encomber his Head with Wo­man's Headgeer, but only clapp'd upon his Crown a white quilted Cap which he us'd to wear a­nights, and bound his Forehead with one of his Garters that was of black Taffety, making him­self a kind of a Muffler and Vizard-Mask with the other. Then he half buried his Head under his Hat, pulling it down to squeeze in his Ears; and as the broad Brim flapp'd down over his Eyes, it seem'd a kind of Umbrella. This done, he wrapp'd himself up in his long Cloke, and up he got upon his Side-Saddle like a Woman. Then the Barber clapt on his Ox-tail Beard, half red, half grizzled, which hung from his Chin down to his Waste: and having mounted his Mule, they took leave of their Host and Hostess, as also of the good, condition'd. Maritornes, who vow'd, tho she was a Sinner, to tumble her Beads and say a Rosary to their Intention.

But scarce were they got out of the Inn, when the Curat began to be troubled with a Scruple of Conscience about his putting on Woman's Appa­rel, being apprehensive of the Indecency of the Disguise in a Priest, tho the goodness of his In­tent might well warrant a Dispensation from the strictness of Decorum: Therefore he desir'd the Barber that they might change Dresses, thinking that in his Habit of a Squire he shou'd less pro­phane his own Dignity and Character, to which after all he ought to have a greater regard than to Don Quixote, withal assuring the Barber, that unless he consented to this exchange, he was absolutely resolv'd to go no further. Sancho came up with 'em just upon this Demur, and was ready to split his sides with laughing at the sight of those strange [Page 308] Masqueraders. In short, the Barber consented to be the Damosel, and to let the Curat be the Squire. Now while they were thus changing Sexes, the Curat offer'd to tutor him how to behave himself in that Female Attire, so as to be able to wheedle Don Quixote out of his Penance. But the Barber desir'd him not to trouble himself about that mat­ter, assuring him that he was well enough vers'd in Female Affairs to be able to act a Damosel without any directions. However, he said he would not now stand fiddling and managing his Pins to prink himself up, seeing 'twou'd be time e­nough to do that when they came near Don Quix­ote's Hermitage; and therefore having folded up his Clothes, and the Curat his Beard, they spurr'd on, while their Guide Sancho entertain'd 'em with a Relation of the mad tatter'd Gentleman whom they had met in the Mountain; however without mentioning a word of the Portmanteau, or the Gold: For as much a Fool as he was, he lov'd to keep Money when he had it, and was wise enough to keep his own Counsel.

They got next day to the place where Sancho had strew'd the Boughs to direct him to Don Quix­ote, and therefore he advis'd 'em to put on their Disguises, if 'twere as they told him, that their Design was only to make his Master leave that wretched kind of Life in order to become an Emperor. Thereupon they charg'd him on his Life not to take the least notice who they were. As for Dulcinea's Letter, if Don Quixote ask'd him about it, they order'd him to say he had de­liver'd it; but that by reason she cou'd neither write nor read, she had sent him her answer by word of Mouth, which was, that on pain of her [Page 309] Indignation he shou'd immediatly put an end to his severe Penance, and repair to her Presence. This they told Sancho, together with what they themselves design'd to say, was the only way to oblige his Master to leave the Desart, that he might prosecute his Design of making himself an Emperor, assuring him they wou'd take care he shou'd not entertain the least thought of an Archbishoprick.

Sancho listen'd with great attention to all these Instructions, and treasur'd 'em up in his mind, giving the Curat and the Barber a world of Thanks for their good Intention, of advising his Master to become an Emperor, and not an Arch­bishop; for, as he said, he imagin'd, in his sim­ple Judgment, that an Emperor-Errant was ten times better than a sneaking Archbishop-Errant, and cou'd reward his Squire a great deal bet­ter.

He likewise added, that he thought it wou'd be better for him to go to his Master somewhat before 'em, and give him an account of his La­dy's kind Answer; for perhaps that alone wou'd be sufficient to fetch him out of that place, with­out putting 'em to any further trouble. They lik'd this Proposal very well, and therefore a­greed to let him go, and wait there till he came back to give 'em an account of his Success. With that Sancho rode away, and struck into the Clefts of the Rocks in order to seek out his Ma­ster, leaving the Curat and the Barber by the side of a Brook, where the neighbouring Hills, and some Trees that grew along its Banks, com­bin'd to make a cool and pleasant Shade. There they shelter'd themselves from the scorching Beams of the Sun that commonly shines intolerably hot [Page 310] in those parts at that time, being about the mid­dle of Aug [...]st, and hardly three a Clock in the Afternoon. While they quietly refresh'd them­selves in that delightful place, where they had a­greed to stay till Sancho's return, they heard a Voice, which tho unattended with any Instru­ment, ravish'd their Ears with its melodious sound. And what increas'd their surprise and their admiration was, to hear such artful Notes, and such delicate Music, in so unfrequented and wild a place, where scarce any Rustics ever strag­gled, much less such skilful Songsters as the Person whom they heard unquestionably was. For tho the Poets are pleas'd to fill the Fields and Woods with Swains and Shepherdesses that sing with all the sweetness and delicacy imaginable, yet 'tis well enough known that those Gentlemen deal more in Fiction than in Truth, and love to em­bellish the Descriptions they make. Nor cou'd our two listning Travellers think it the Voice of a Peasant when they began to distinguish the Words of the Song; for they seem'd to relish more of a Courtly Stile than of a Rural Com­position. These were the Verses.

The Time, the Hour, the solitariness of the Place, the Voice and agreeable manner with which the unseen Musician sung, so fill'd the Hearers Minds with Wonder and Delight, that they were all attention; and when the Voice was silent, they continued so too a pretty while, watch­ing with list'ning Ears to catch the expected Sounds, and expressing their satisfaction best by that dumb Applause. At last suspecting it wou'd sing no more, they resolv'd to find out the charm­ing Songster; but as they were going to at­tempt it, they heard the wish'd for Voice be­gin another Air, which fix'd 'em where they stood, till it had sung the following Sonnet.

This Sonnet concluded with a deep Sigh, and such [...]oleful Throbs that the Curate and the Barber now out of Pity, as well as Curiosity before, re­solv'd instantly to find out who this mournful Song­s [...]er was. They had not gon far, when by the side of a Rock they discover'd a Man whose Shape and Aspect answer'd exactly to the Description which Sancho had given 'em of Cardenio. They observ'd that he stop'd short as soon as he spy'd 'em, yet without any signs of fear; only he hung down his [...]ad, like one abandon'd to Sorrow, never so much a [...] lifting up his Eyes to mind what they did. The Curate who was a good and a well spoken Man, [...]esently guessing him to be the same of whom Sancho had given them an account, went towards [Page 314] him, and addressing himself to him with great Civility and Discretion, earnestly intreated him t [...] forsake this Desert, and a course of Life so wretched and forlorn which endanger'd his Title to a bet­ter, and from a wilful Misery might make him fall into greater and everlasting Woes. Cardenio was then free from the Distraction that so often disturb'd his Senses; yet seeing two Persons in a Garb wholly different from that of those few Rusticks who fre­quented these Desarts, and hearing 'em talk as if they were no Strangers to his Concerns, he was some­what surpris'd at first; however having look'd upon 'em earnestly for some time, Gentlemen, said he, whoever ye be, I find Heaven pitying my Misfor­tunes has brought ye to these Solitary Regions to retrieve me from this afrightful Retirement, and recover me to the Society of Men. But because you do not know how unhappy a Fate attends me, and that I never am freed from one Affliction, but to fall into a greater, you perhaps take me for a Man naturally endow'd with a very small stock of Sense, and what's worse for one of those Wretches who are altogether depriv'd of Reason: and indeed I cannot blame any one that entertains such thoughts of me; for even I my self am convinc'd that the bare remembrance of my Disasters often distracts me to that degree, that losing all Sense of Reason and Knowledg I unman my self for the time, and launch into those Extravagances which nothing but the height of Frenzy and Madness wou'd commit. And I am the more sensible of my being troubled with this Distemper, when People tell me what I have done during the Violence of that terrible Accident, and give me too certa [...] Proofs of it. And after all I can alledg no oth [...] Excuse but the Cause of my Misfortune which o [...] casion'd [Page 315] that frantick Rage, and therefore tell the story of my hard Fate to as many as have the pati­ence to hear it; for Men of Sense, perceiving the Cause, will not wonder at the Effects, and tho' they can give me no Relief, yet at least they will cease to condemn me; for a bare Relation of my Wrongs must needs make 'em lose their Resent­ments of the Effects of my Disorder into a Com­passion of my miserable Fate. Therefore, Gen­tlemen, if you come here with that design, I beg that before you give your selves the trouble of re­proving or advising me, you will be pleased to at­tend to the Relation of my Calamities. For perhaps when you've heard it you will think 'em past Redress, and so will save your selves the labour you wou'd take. The Curate and the Barber who de­sir'd nothing more than to hear the Story from his own Mouth, were extremely glad of his Proffer; and having assur'd him, they had no design to ag­gravate his Miseries with pretending to remedy 'em, nor wou'd they cross his Inclinations in the least, they entreated him to begin his Relation.

The unfortunate Cardenio then began his Story, and went on with the first part of it, almost in the same Words as far as when he related it to Don Quixote and the Goatherd, when the Knight out of his superstitious Niceness to observe the Deco­rum of Chivalry gave an Interruption to the Rela­tion by quarrelling about Master Elizabat, as we have already said. Then he went on with that Passage concerning the Letter sent him by Lucinda, which Don Ferdinand had unluckily found, hap­pening to be by, and to open the Book of Amadis de G [...]ule first when Lucinda sent it back to Cardenio with that Letter in it between the Leaves; which Car­denio told 'em was as follows.

This Letter, continued Cardenio, made me resolve once more to demand Lucinda of her Father in Marriage, and was the same that encreas'd Don Ferdinand's Esteem for her, by that discovery of her Sense and Discretion, which so enflam'd his Soul, that from that Moment he secretly resolv'd to de­stroy my Hopes e're I cou'd be so happy as to crown 'em with Success. I told that perfidious Friend what Lucinda's Father had advis'd me to do, when I rashly had ask'd her for my Wife before, and that I durst not now impart this to my Father, left he shou'd not willingly consent I shou'd marry yet Not but that he knew, that her Quality, Beauty and Virtue were sufficient to make her an Orna­ment to the noblest House in Spain, but because I was apprehensive he wou'd not let me marry till h [...] saw what the Duke wou'd do for me. Don Ferdi­nand with a pretended officiousness proffer'd me to speak to my Father, and persuade him to treat with Lucinda's. Ungrateful Man! deceitful Friend ambitious Marius! cruel Catiline! wicked Sylla perfidious Galalon! faithless Vellido! malicious Ju­lian! [Page 317] treacherous miserable Judas! Thou all those fatal hated, Men in one, false Ferdinand! What Wrongs had that fond confiding Wretch done thee, who thus to thee unbosom'd all his Cares, all the Delights and Secrets of his Soul? Why shoud'st thou injure me who still endeavour'd to discharge the Duty of a Friend, and scru'd up Friendship al­most to the pitch of Love? But oh! I rave unhap­py Wretch, I shou'd rather accuse the Cruelty of my Stars, whose fatal Influence pours Mischiefs on me, which no Earthly Force can resist, nor human Art prevent. Who wou'd have thought that Don Ferdinand, whose Quality and Merit intitled him to the lawful Possession of Beauties of the highest Rank, and whom I had engag'd by a thousand en­dearing marks of Friendship and Services, shou'd forfeit thus his Honour and his Truth, and lay such a treacherous Design to deprive me of all the Hap­piness of my Life? But I must leave expostulating to end my Story. The Traytor Ferdinand, think­ing his Project unpracticable while I stay'd near Lucinda, bargain'd for six fine Horses the same day that he promis'd to speak to my Father, and pre­sently desir'd me to ride away to his Brother for Money to pay for 'em. Alas I was so far from sus­pecting his Treachery, that I was glad of doing him that piece of Service. Accordingly I went that very Evening to take my leave of Lucinda, and to tell her what Don Ferdinand had promised to do. She bid me return with all the haste of an expecting Lover, not doubting but our lawful Wishes might be crown'd as soon as my Father had spoke for me [...]o her's. When she said this, I mark'd her trick­ [...]ing Tears, and a sudden Grief so obstructed her [...]peech, that, tho she seem'd to strive to tell me [...]omething more, she cou'd not give it utterance. [Page 318] This unusual Scene of Sorrow strangely amaz'd and mov'd me; yet because I wou'd not murther hope, I chose to attribute this to the tenderness of her Af­fection, and unwillingness to part with me. In short away I went, buried in deep Melancholy, and full of Fears and Imaginations, for which I cou'd give no manner of Reason. I deliver'd Don Ferdinand's Letter to his Brother, who receiv'd me with all the Kindness imaginable, but did not dispatch me as I expected. For to my Sorrow he enjoyn'd me to tarry a whole Week, and to take care the Duke might not see me, his Brother having sent for Mo­ney unknown to his Father. But this was only a Device of false Ferdinand's; for his Brother did not want Money, and might have dispatch'd me imme­diately, had he not been privately desir'd to defer my Return.

This was so displeasing an Injunction that I was ready to have come away without the Money, not being able to live so long absent from my Lucinda, principally considering in what Condition I had left her. Yet at last I forc'd my self to stay, and my respect for my Friend prevail'd over my Impatience. But e're four tedious Days were expir'd, a Mes­senger brought me a Letter which I presently knew to be Lucinda's Hand. I open'd it with trembling Hands and an aking Heart, justly imagining it was no ordinary Concern that cou'd urge her to send thither to me. And before I read it I ask'd the Messenger who had given't him; he answer'd me that, going by accidentally in the Street about Noo [...] in our Town, a very handsom Lady, all in Tears had call'd him to her Window, and with great Pre­cipitation, Friend, said she, if you be a Christian, as you seem to be, for Heaven's sake take this Let­ter and deliver it with all speed into the Person's [Page 319] own Hand, to whom 'tis directed: I assure you, in this you'l do a very good Action; and, that you may not want Means to do it, take what's wrapp'd up in this; and saying this, she threw me a Hand­kerchief wherein I found a hundred Reals, this Gold Ring which you see, and the Letter I now brought you: which done, I having made her signs to let her know I wou'd do as she desir'd, without so much as staying for an Answer, she went from the Grate. This Reward, but much more that beautiful Lady's Tears and earnest Prayers, made me post away to you that very Minute, and so in sixteen hours, I have travell'd Eighteen long Leagues. While the Messenger spoke, I was seiz'd with sad Apprehensions of some fatal News, and such a trembling shook my Limbs, that I cou'd scarce support my fainting Body. However, taking Courage, at last I read the Letter; the Contents of which were these.

[Page 320]I had no sooner read the Letter, added Cardenio, but away I flew, without waiting for my Dispatch; for then I too plainly discover'd Don Ferdinand's Treachery, and that he had only sent me to his Brother to take the advantage of my Absence. Revenge, Love and Impatience gave me Wings, so that I got home privately the next Day just when it grew duskish, in good time to speak with Lucin­da; and leaving my Mule at the honest Man's House who brought me the Letter, I went to wait upon my Mistress whom I luckily found at the^* Window, the only Witness of our Loves. She presently knew me, and I her, but she did not wel­com me as I expected, nor did I find her in such a dress as I thought suitable to our Circumstances. But what Man of Assurance dares but pretend to know thorowly the Riddle of a Woman's Mind, and who cou'd ever hope to fix her mutable Na­ture? Cardenio, said Lucinda to me, my Wedding Clothes are on, and the perfidious Ferdinand with my covetous Father, and the rest stay for me in the Hall, to perform the Marriage Rites; but they shall sooner be Witnesses of my Death than of my Nuptials. Be not troubled, my Dear Cardenio; but rather strive to be present at that Sacrifice. I promise thee, if Entreaties and Words cannot prevent it, I have a Dagger that shall do me Jus­tice; and my Death at least shall give thee undeni­able Assurances of my Love and Fidelity. Do [Page 321] Madam, cry'd I to her with Precipitation, and so disorder'd that I did not know what I said, let your Actions verify your Words. Let us leave nothing unattempted that may serve our common Interests; and I assure you, if my Sword does not defend 'em well, I will turn it upon my own Breast, rather than outlive my Disappointment. I cannot tell whether Lucinda heard me, for she was call'd away in great haste, the Bride-Groom impatiently expecting her. My Spirit forsook me when she left me, and my Sorrow and Confusion cannot be express'd. Me­thought I saw the Sun set for ever; and my Eyes and my Senses partaking of my Distraction, I cou'd not so much as spy the Door to go into the House, and seem'd rooted to the place where I stood. But at last the Consideration of my Love having rous'd me out of this stupifying Astonishment, I got into the House without being discover'd, every thing being there in a hurry; and going into the Hall I hid my self behind the Hangings, where two pieces of Tapstry met, and gave me liberty to see with­out being seen. Who can describe the various Thoughts, the Doubts, the Fears, the Anguish, that perplex'd and toss'd my Soul while I stood waiting there! Don Ferdinand enter'd the Hall not like a Bride-Groom, but in his usual Habit, with only a Cousin German of Lucinda's, the rest were the People of the House. Some time after came Lucinda her self, with her Mother, and two wait­ing Women. I perceiv'd she was as richly drest as was consistent with her Quality, and the solemnity of the Ceremony; but the Distraction that possess'd my Soul lent me no time to note particularly the Apparel she had on. I only mark'd the Colours that were Carnation and White, and the splendor of the Jewels that enrich'd her Dress in many pla­ces; [Page 322] but nothing equal'd the lustre of her Beauty that adorn'd her Person much more than all those Ornaments. Oh Memory, thou fatal Enemy of my Ease, why dost thou now so faithfully represent to the Eyes of my Mind Lucinda's incomparable Charms? Why dost thou not rather show me what she did then, that mov'd by so provoking a Wrong, I may indeavour to revenge it, or at least to dye! Forgive me these tedious Digressions, Gen­tlemen! Alas, my Woes are none of those that can or ought to be related with Brevity; for to me every Circumstance seems worthy to be enlarg d upon.

The Curate assur'd Cardenio, that they attended every word with a mournful Pleasure that made 'em greedy of hearing the least Passage. With that, Cardenio went on. All Parties being met, said he, the Priest enter'd, and taking the young Cou­ple by the Hands, he ask'd Lucinda whether she were willing to take Don Ferdinand for her Wedded Husband? With that, I thrust out my Head from between the two pieces of Tapstry, listening with anxious Heart to hear her answer, upon which de­pended my Life and Happiness. Dull heartless Wretch that I was! Why did I not then shew my self! why did I not call to her aloud, Consider what thou dost Lucinda, thou art mine, and can'st not be another Man's: Nor can'st thou speak now the fa­tal Yes, without injuring Heaven, thy self and me, and murthering thy Cardenio. And thou, per­fidious Ferdinand, who dar'st to violate all Rights, both human and divine, to rob me of my Treasure: Can'st thou hope to deprive me with impunity of the comfort of my Life? Or think'st thou that any Consideration can stifle my Resentments when my Honour and my Love lye at stake? Fool that I am! [Page 323] now that 'tis too late, and danger is far distant, I say what I shou'd have done, and not what I did then: After I've suffer'd the Treasure of my Soul to be stolen, I exclaim against the Thief whom I might have punish'd for the base Attempt, had I had but so much Resolution to revenge, as I have now to complain. Then let me rather accuse my faint Heart that durst not do me right, and let me dye here like a Wretch void both of Sense and Honour, the outcast of Society and Nature. The Priest stood waiting for Lucinda's Answer a good while be­fore she gave it; and all that time I expected she wou'd have pull'd out her Dagger, or unloos'd her Tongue to plead her former Engagement to me. But alas to my eternal Disappointment I heard her at last with a feeble Voice pronounce the fatal Yes; and then Don Ferdinand saying the same, and giv­ing her the Ring, the sacred Knot was ty'd, which Death alone can dissolve. Then did the faithless Bridegroom advance to embrace his Bride, but she laying her Hand upon her Heart, in that very Mo­ment swoon'd away in her Mother's Arms. Oh what Confusion seiz'd me, what Pangs, what Tor­ments rack'd my Soul, seeing the Falshood of Lu­cinda's Promises, all my hopes shipwrack'd, and the only thing that made me wish to live, for ever ra­vish'd from me! Confounded and despairing, I look'd upon my self as abandon'd by Heaven to the Cru­elty of my Destiny; and the Violence of my Grief stifling my Sighs, and denying a passage to my Tears, I felt my self transfix'd with killing Anguish, and burning with jealous Rage and Vengeance. In the mean time the whole Company was troubled at Lucinda's swooning; and as her Mother unclasp'd her Gown before, to give her Air, a folded Paper was found in her Bosom, which Don Ferdinand im­mediately [Page 324] snatch'd, then stepping a little aside, he open'd it and read it by the light of one of the Tapers. And as soon as he had done, he as it were, let himself fall upon a Chair, and there he sat with his Hand upon the side of his Face, with all the signs of Melancholy and Discontent, as un­mindful of his Bride as if he had been insensible of her Accident. For my own part, seeing all the House thus in an uproar, I resolv'd to leave the hated Place without caring whether I were seen or not, and, in case I were perceiv'd to act such a des­perate part in punishing the Traytor Ferdinand, that the World shou'd at once be inform'd of his Perfidi­ousness, and the Severity of my just Resentment. But my Destiny that reserv'd me for more lasting Woes, allow'd me then the use of that small re­mainder of my Senses, which afterwards quite for­sook me: So that I left the House without reven­ging my self on my Enemies, whom I cou'd have easily sacrific'd to my Rage in this unexpected Disorder; and I chose to inflict upon my self for my Credulity, the Punishment which their Infidelity deserv'd. I went to the Messengers House where I had left my Mule, and without so much as bid­ding him adieu, I mounted and left the Town like another Lot without turning to give it a parting look; and as I rode along the Fields, Darkness and Silence round me, I vented my Passion in Execrati­ons against the treacherous Ferdinand, and in as loud Complaints of Lucinda's breach of Vows and In­gratitude. Thus abandoning my self to these tem­pestuous Thoughts, I rode on all that Night, and about break of Day I struck into one of the Passes that lead into these Mountains; where I wander'd for three Days together without keeping any Road, till at last coming to a certain Vally that lies some­where [Page 325] where hereabouts, I met some Shepherds of whom I enquir'd the way to the most craggy and inacces­sible part of these Rocks. They directed me, and I made all the haste I cou'd to get thither, resolv'd to linger out my hated Life far from the Converse of false ungrateful Mankind. When I came among those Desarts, my Mule through weariness and hun­ger fell down dead, and I my self was so weak, so tir'd and dejected, being almost famish'd, and with­all destitute and careless of Relief, that I soon laid my self down, or rather fainted on the Ground, where I lay a considerable while, I don't know how long, extended like a Corps. When I came to my self again, I got up, and cou'd not perceive I had any Appetite to eat: I found some Goatherds by me who, I suppose, had given me some Sustenance, tho I were not sensible of their Relief. For they told me in what a wretched Condition they found me, staring and talking so strangely, that they judg'd I had quite lost my Senses. I have indeed since that had but too much cause to think that my Reason sometimes leaves me, and that I commit those Extravagances which are only the Effects of senseless Rage and Frenzy, tearing my Clothes, howling thro' these Desarts, filling the Air with Curses and Lamentations, and idly repeating a thousand times Lucinda's Name, all my Wishes at that time being to breath out my Soul with the dear Word upon my Lips; and when I come to my self, I am commonly so weak and so weary, that I am scarce able to stir. As for my place of Abode, 'tis usually some hollow Cork-Tree, into which I creep at Night; and there those few Goatherds whose Cattle browse on the neighbouring Mountains out of pity and Christian Charity, sometimes leave some Victuals for the support of my miserable Life. [Page 326] For even when my Reason is absent, Nature per­forms its animal Functions, and Instinct guides me to satisfy it. Sometimes these good People meet me in my lucid Intervals, and chide me for taking that from 'em by force and by surprize, which they are always so ready to give me willingly; for which Violence I can make no other excuse but the Ex­tremity of my Distraction. Thus must I drag a miserable Being, till Heaven, pitying my Afflicti­ons, will either put a Period to my Life, or blot out of my Memory perjur'd Lucinda's Beauty and Ingratitude, and Ferdinand's Perfidiousness. Cou'd I but be so happy e're I dye, I might then hope to be able in time to compose my frantick Thoughts: but if I must despair of such a Favour, I have no other way but to recommend my Soul to Heaven's Mercy; for I am not able to extricate my Body nor my Mind out of that Misery, in which I have un­happily plung'd my self.

Thus, Gentlemen, I have given you a faithful account of my Misfortunes. Judg now whether 'twas possible I shou'd relate 'em with less Concern. And pray do not lose time to prescribe Remedies to a Patient who will make use of none. I will and can have no health without Lucinda: Since she forsakes me, I must dye: She has convinc'd me by her Infidelity that she desires my ruin; and, by my unparallel'd Sufferings, to the last I will strive to convince her I deserv'd a better Fate. Let me then suffer on, and may I be the only unhappy Creature whom Despair cou'd not relieve, while the Impossi­bility of receiving. Comfort moves a Cure to so many other Wretches.

Here Cardenio made an end of his mournful Sto­ry, and just as the Curate was preparing to give him some proper Consolation, he was prevented by the [Page 327] doleful Accents of another Complaint that engag'd 'em to new Attention. That the account of that Adventure is reserv'd for the fourth Book of this History; for our Wise and Judicious Historian Cid Hamet Benengeli puts here a Period to the third.

CHAP. I. The pleasant new Adventure which the Curate and the Barber met in Sierra Morena.

MOST fortunate and happy was the Age that usher'd into the World that most daring Knight Don Quixote de la Man­cha! For from his generous Resoluti­on to revive and restore the ancient Order of [Page 328] Knight-Errantry, that was not only wholly neg­lected, but almost lost and abolish'd, our Age bar­ren in it self of pleasant Recreations, derives the pleasure we reap from his true History, and the various Tales and Novels with which 'tis inter­mixt, in some Respects as entertaining, as artful, and authentick. We told you, that as the Curate was preparing to give Cardenio some seasonable Consolation, he was prevented by a Voice whose doleful Complaints reach'd his Ears. O Heavens! cry'd the unseen Mourner, is it possible I have at last found out a place that will afford a private Grave to this miserable Body, whose Load I so repine to bear? Yes, if the silence and solitude of these Desarts do not deceive me, here I may dye conceal'd from human Eyes. Ah me! Ah wretch­ed Creature! To what Extremity has Affliction driven me, reduc'd to think these hideous Woods and Rocks a kind Retreat! 'Tis true indeed, I may here freely complain to Heaven, and beg for that Relief which I might ask in vain of false Mankind; for 'tis vain, I find, to seek below either Counsel Ease, or Remedy. The Curate and his Company who heard all this distinctly, justly conjectur'd they were very near the Person who thus express'd his Grief, and therefore rose to find him out. They had not gone above twenty Paces, before they spy'd a Youth in a Country Habit sitting at the Foot of a Rock behind an Ash-tree; but they cou'd not well see his Face, being bow'd almost upon his Knees, as he sat washing his Feet in a Rivulet that glided by. They approach'd him so softly that he did not perceive 'em: And, as he was gently paddling in the clear Water, they had time to discern that his Legs were as white as Alabaster, and so taper, so curiously proportion'd; and so fine, that nothing of the kind cou'd appear [Page 329] more beautiful. Our observers were amaz'd at this Discovery, rightly imagining that such tender Feet were not us'd to trudge in rugged ways, or measure the steps of Oxen at the Plough, the com­mon Employments of People in such Apparel; and therefore the Curate who went before the rest, whose Curiosity was heighten'd by this sight, beckon'd to 'em to step aside, and hide themselves behind some of the little Rocks that were by; Which they did, and from thence making a stricter Observation, they found he had on a short Jerkin of coarse russet Cloth ty'd about his Waste, with a kind of Linnen Scarf, and a pair of Breeches of the same, together with a Thrum cap under which his hair was turn'd up. After he had wash'd his Feet, to dry 'em he pull'd out from under his Cap a Handkerchief that partly hid his Cheeks; and with that looking up, he discover'd so charming a Face, so accomplish'd a Beauty, that Cardenio cou'd not forbear saying to the Curate, that since this was not Lucinda, 'twas certainly no human Form, but an Angel. And then the Youth taking off his Cap, and shaking his Head, an incredible quantity of lovely Hair flow'd down upon his Shoulders, and not only cover'd 'em, but almost all his Body; by which they were now convinc'd, that what they at first took to be a Country Lad, was a young Woman, and one of the most beautiful Creatures in the World. Cardenio was not less surpriz'd than the other two, and once more de­clar'd, that no Face could vie with hers but Lucin­da's. To part her deshevel'd Tresses, she only us'd her slender Fingers, and at the same time dis­cover'd so fine a pair of Arms and Hands, so white and lovely, that our three admiring Gazers grew more impatient to know who she was, and mov'd forwards to accost her. At the noise they [Page 330] made, the pretty Creature started; and peeping thro' her Hair which she hastily remov'd from be­fore her Eyes with both her Hands, she no sooner saw three Men coming towards her, but in a mighty fright she snatch'd up a little Bundle that lay by her, and fled as fast as she cou'd, without so much as staying to put on her Shooes, or do up her Hair. But alas! scarce had she gone six steps, when her tender Feet not being able to endure the rough Encounter of the Stones, the poor affrighted Fair fell on the hard Ground; so that those from whom she fled, hast'ning to help her, Stay, Madam, cry'd the Curate, whoever you be, you have no reason to fly: We have no other Design but to do you Service. With that, approaching her, he took her by the hand, and perceiving she was so dis­order'd with Fear and Confusion that she cou'd not answer a word, he strove to compose her mind with kind Expressions. Be not afraid, Madam, continu'd he; tho' your Hair has betray'd what your Disguise conceal'd from us, we are but the more dispos'd to assist you, and do you all manner of Service. Then pray tell us how we may best do it. I imagine it was no slight occasion that made you obscure your singular Beauty under so unworthy a Disguise, and venture into this Desart, where it was the greatest Chance in the World that e'er you met with us. However, we hope it is not impossible to find a Remedy for your Mis­fortunes, since there are none which reason and time will not at last surmount: And therefore, Madam, if you have not absolutely renounc'd all human Comfort, I beseech you tell us the Cause of your Affliction, and assure your self we do not ask this out of meer Curiosity, but a real Desire to serve you, and either to condole or asswage your Grief.

[Page 331]While the Curate endeavour'd thus to remove the trembling fair one's Apprehension, she stood amaz'd, staring, without speaking a Word, some­times upon one, sometimes upon another, like one scarce well awake, or like an ignorant Clown who happens to see some strange sight. But at last the Curate having given her time to recollect her self, and persisting in his earnest and civil In­treaties, she fetch'd a deep Sigh, and then dis­closing her Lips, broke silence in this manner. Since this Desart has not been able to conceal me, and my Hair has betray'd me, 'twou'd be need­less now for me to dissemble with you; and since you desire to hear the Story of my Misfortunes, I cannot in Civility deny you, after all the obliging Offers you have been pleas'd to make me: But yet, Gentlemen, I am much afraid, what I've to say will but make you sad, and afford you little Satisfaction; for you will find my disasters are not to be remedy'd. There's one thing that troubles me yet more; it shocks my Nature to think I must be forc'd to reveal to you some Secrets which I had design'd to have bury'd in my Grave: But yet considering the Garb and the Place you've found me in, I fancy 'twill be better for me to tell you all, than to give you occasion to doubt of my past Conduct and my present Designs by an affected Reservedness. The disguis'd Lady having made this Answer, with a modest Blush and extraordinary Discretion, the Curate and his Company, who now admir'd her the more for her Sense, renew'd their kind Offers and pressing Sollicitations; and then they modestly let her retire a Moment to some distance to put her self in decent Order. Which done, she return'd, and being all seated on the Grass, after she had us'd no small Violence to smother her Tears, she thus began her Story.

[Page 332]I was born in a certain Town of Andaluzia, from which a Duke takes his Title, that makes him a Grandee of Spain. This Duke has two Sons, the Eldest Heir to his Estate and Virtues, the Younger Heir to nothing I know of but the Deceit and Perfidiousness of the greatest Traitors that ever liv'd. My Father, who is one of his Vassals, is but of low degree; but so very rich, that, had Fortune equall'd his Birth to his Estate, he cou'd have wanted nothing more, and I per­haps had never been so miserable; for I verily believe, my not being of noble Blood is the chief occasion of my Ruin. And yet my Parents are not so meanly born neither, as to have any cause to be asham'd of their Original. 'Tis true, they have been Farmers from Father to Son, yet with­out any mixture or stain of infamous or scan­dalous Blood. They are good old Christians (as we call our true primitive Spaniards) and the Antiquity of their Family, together with their large Possessions, and the Port they live in, raises 'em much above their Profession, and has by lit­tle and little almost universally gain'd 'em the name of Gentlemen, setting 'em in a manner e­qual to many such in the World's Esteem. As I am their only Child, they ever lov'd me with all the tenderness of indulgent Parents; and their great Affection made 'em esteem themselves hap­pier in their Daughter, than in the peaceable En­joyment of their large Estate. Now as it was my good Fortune to be possess'd of their Love, they were pleas'd to intrust me with their Wealth. The whole House was left to my Management, and I took such Care not to abuse the Trust they repos'd in me, that I never forfeited their good opinion of my Discretion. The time I had to [Page 333] spare from the Care of the Family, I commonly imploy'd in the usual Exercises of young Women, sometimes making Lace, or at my Needle, and now and then reading some good Book, or play­ing on the Spanish Harp; having experienc'd that Musick was very proper to recreate the wearied Mind: And this was the innocent Life I led. I have not descended to these Particulars out of vain Ostentation, but meerly that when I come to relate my Misfortunes, you may observe I do not owe 'em to my ill Conduct. While I thus liv'd the Life of a Nun, unseen as I thought by any body but our own Family, and never leaving the House but to go to Church, which was com­monly betimes in the Morning, and always with my Mother, and so close hid in a Veil that I cou'd scarce find my way; notwithstanding all the Care that was taken to keep me from being seen, 'twas unhappily rumour'd abroad that I was handsome, and to my eternal Disquiet Love in­truded into my peaceful Retirement. Don Fer­dinand, second Son to the Duke I've mention'd, had a sight of me—Scarce had Cardenio heard Don Ferdinand nam'd, but he chang'd Colour, and betray'd such a Disorder of Body and Mind, that the Curate and the Barber were afraid he wou'd have fallen into one of those frantick Fits that often us'd to take him. But by good Fortune it did not come to that, and he only set himself to look stedfastly on the Country Maid, presently guessing who she was; while she continu'd her Story, without taking any notice of the alterati­on of his Countenance.

No sooner had he seen me, said she, but, as he since told me, he felt in his Breast that violent Passion of which he afterwards gave me so many Proofs. But not to tire you with a needless Re­lation [Page 334] of every Particular, I will pass over all the Means he us'd to inform me of his Love: He purchas'd the good Will of all our Servants with private Gifts: He made my Father a thousand kind Offers of Service: Every Day seem'd a day of Rejoycing in our Neighbourhood, every Even­ing usher'd in some Serenade, and the continual Musick was even a Disturbance in the Night. He got an infinite number of Love Letters tran­smitted to me, I don't know by what means, every one full of the tenderest Expressions, Pro­mises, Vows, and Protestations. But all this assiduous Courtship was so far from inclining my Heart to a kind Return, that it rather mov'd my Indignation; insomuch that I look'd upon Don Ferdinand as my greatest Enemy, and one wholly bent on my Ruin: Not but that I was well e­nough pleas'd with his Gallantry, and took a secret Delight in seeing my self thus courted by a Person of his Quality. Such demonstrations of Love are never altogether displeasing to Women, and the most disdainful, in spight of all their Coyness, reserve a little Complaisance in their Hearts for their Admirers. But the disproportion between our Qualities was too great to suffer me to entertain any reasonable Hopes, and his Gal­lantry too singular not to offend me. Besides, my Father, who soon made a right Construction of Don Ferdinand's Pretensions, with his prudent Admonitions concurr'd with the Sense I ever had of my Honour, and banish'd from my Mind all favourable Thoughts of his Addresses. However, like a kind Parent, perceiving I was somewhat uneasy, and imagining the flattering Prospect of so advantagious a Match might still amuse me, he told me one day he repos'd the utmost Trust in my Virtue, esteeming it the strongest Ob­stacle [Page 335] he could oppose to Don Ferdinand's disho­nourable Designs; yet if I wou'd Marry, to rid me at once of his unjust Pursuit, and prevent the ruin of my Reputation, I shou'd have Liberty to make my own choice of a suitable Match, either in our own Town or the Neighbourhood; and that he would do for me whatever cou'd be ex­pected from a loving Father. I humbly thank'd him for his Kindness, and told him, that as I had never yet had any Thoughts of Marriage, I wou'd try to rid my self of Don Ferdinand some other way. Accordingly I resolv'd to shun him with so much Precaution, that he shou'd never have the Opportunity to speak to me: But all my re­serv'dness, far from tiring out his Passion, strengthen'd it the more. In short, Don Ferdinand, either hearing or suspecting I was to be marry'd, thought of a contrivance to cross a Design that was likely to cut off all his Hopes. One Night therefore when I was in my Chamber, no Body with me but my Maid, and the Door double-lock'd and bolted, that I might be secur'd against the Attempts of Don Ferdinand, whom I took to be a Man who would stick at nothing to compass his Designs, unexpectedly I saw him just before me; which amazing sight so surpriz'd me, that I was struck dumb, and fainted away with Fear. So I had not power to call for help, nor do I be­lieve he wou'd have given me time to have done it, had I attempted it; for he presently ran to me, and taking me in his Arms, while I was sinking with the Fright, he spoke to me in such endearing Terms, and with so much Address, and pretended Tenderness and Sincerity, that I did not dare to cry out when I came to my self. His Sighs, and yet more his Tears, seem'd to me undeniable proofs of his vow'd Integrity; and I [Page 336] being but young, bred up in perpetual Retire­ment from all Society but my virtuous Parents, and unexperienc'd in those Affairs in which even the most knowing are apt to be mistaken, my reluctancy abated by Degrees, and I began to have some sense of Compassion, yet none but what was consistent with my Honour. However, when I was pretty well recover'd from my first Fright, my former Resolution return'd; and then, with more Courage than I thought I shou'd have had, My Lord, said Love, I, if at the same time that you of­fer me your Love, and give me such strange De­monstration of it, you wou'd also offer me Poison, and Leave to take my choice, I wou'd soon re­solve which to accept, and convince you by my Death that my Honour is dearer to me than my Life. To be plain, I can have no good opinion of a Presumption that endangers my Reputation; and unless you leave me this Moment, I will so effectually make you know how much you're mis­taken in me, that if you have but the least sense of Honour left, you'll repent the driving me to that Extremity as long as you live. I was born your Vassal, but not your Slave; nor does the greatness of your Birth privilege you to injure your Inferiours, or exact from me more than the Duties which all Vassals pay: That excepted, I do not esteem my self less in my low Degree, than you have reason to value your self in your high Rank. Do not then think to awe or dazzle me with your Grandeur, or fright or force me in­to a base Compliance; I am not to be tempted with Titles, Pomp, and Equipage, nor weak e­nough to be mov'd with vain Sighs, and false Tears. In short, my Will is wholly at my Father's Disposal, and I will not entertain any Man as a Lover but by his Appointment. There­fore, [Page 337] my Lord, if you wou'd have me believe you so sincerely love me, give over your vain and injurious Pursuit; suffer me peaceably to enjoy the benefits of Life in the free possession of my Honour, the loss of which for ever imbitters all Life's Sweets; and since you cannot be my Husband, do not expect from me that Affection which I cannot pay to any other. What do you mean, charming Dorothea? cry'd the perfidious Lord. Cannot I be yours by the sacred Title of Husband? Who can hinder me, if you'll but consent to bless me on those Terms? Too hap­py if I have no other Obstacle to surmount. I am yours this Moment, beautiful Dorothea; see, I give you here my Hand to be yours, and yours alone for ever: And let all-seeing Heaven, and this Holy Image here on your Oratory, witness the solemn Truth.

Cardenio hearing her call her self Dorothea, was now fully satisfy'd she was the Person whom he took her to be: However he wou'd not inter­rupt her Story, being impatient to hear the End of it; only addressing himself to her, Is then your Name Dorothea, Madam? cry'd he: I have heard of a Lady of that Name whose Misfortunes have a great Resemblance with yours. But pro­ceed, I beseech you, and when you have done, I may perhaps surprize you with an Account of things that have some Affinity with those you relate. With that Dorothea made a stop to study Cardenio's Face, and his wretched Attire; and then earnestly desir'd him, if he knew any thing that concern'd her, to let her know it presently; telling him that all the Happiness she had left, was only the Courage to bear with Resignation all the Disasters that might befal her, well assur'd that no new one cou'd make her more unfor­tunate [Page 338] then she was already. Truly, Madam, re­ply'd Cardenio, I wou'd tell you all I know, were I sure my Conjectures were true; but so far as I may judge by what I've heard hitherto, I don't think it material to tell it you yet, and I shall find a more proper time to do it. Then Dorothea resuming her Discourse, Don Ferdinand, said she, repeated his Vows of Marriage in the most serious manner; and giving me his Hand, plighted me his Faith with the most binding Words, and sacred Oaths. But before I wou'd let him en­gage himself thus, I advis'd him to have a Care how he suffer'd an unruly Passion to get the Ascendant over his Reason, to the endangering of his future Happiness. My Lord, said I, let not a few transitory and imaginary Charms, which cou'd never excuse such an excess of Love, hurry you to your Ruin: Spare your noble Father the Shame and Displeasure of seeing you marry'd to a Person so much below your Birth; and do not rashly do a thing of which you may repent, and that may make my Life uncomfortable. I added several other Reasons to dissuade him from that hasty Match, but they were all unregarded. Don Ferdinand, deaf to every thing but to his De­sires, engag'd and bound himself like an incon­siderate Lover, who sacrifices all things to his Passion, or rather like a Cheat, who does not value a Breach of Vows. When I saw him so obstinate, I began to consider what I had to do. I am not the first, thought I to my self, whom Marriage has rais'd to unhop'd for Greatness, and whose Beauty alone has supply'd her want of Birth and Merit: Thousands besides Don Ferdinand have marry'd meerly for Love, without any re­gard to the inequality of Wealth or Birth. The opportunity was fair and tempting; and as For­tune [Page 339] is not always favourable, I thought it an imprudent thing to let it slip. Thought I to my self, while she kindly offers me a Husband who assures me of an inviolable Affection, why should I by an unreasonable Denial make my self an Enemy of such a Friend? And then there was one thing more; I apprehended it would be dangerous to drive him to Despair by an ill-tim'd Refusal: Nor could I think my self safe alone in his Hands, lest he should resolve to satisfy his Passion by Force; which done, he might think himself free from performing a Promise which I wou'd not accept, and then I shou'd be left with­out either Honour or an Excuse; for it wou'd be no easy matter to perswade my Father, and the censorious World, that this Noble-man was ad­mitted into my Chamber without my Consent. All these Reasons, which in a Moment offer'd themselves in my Mind, shook my former Re­solves; and Don Ferdinand's Sighs, his Tears, his Vows, and the sacred Witnesses by which he swore, together with his graceful Mien, his ex­traordinary Accomplishments, and the Love which I fancy'd I read in all his Actions, help'd to bring on my Ruin, as I believe they would have pre­vail'd with any one's Heart as free and as well guarded as was mine. Then I call'd my Maid to be Witness of Don Ferdinand's Vows and sacred En­gagements, which he reiterated to me, and con­firm'd with new Oaths and solemn Promises; he call'd again on Heaven, and on many particular Saints, to witness his Sincerity, wishing a thousand Curses might fall on him, in case he ever violated his Word. Again he sigh'd, again he wept, and mov'd me more and more with fresh Marks of Affection; and the treacherous Maid having left the Room, the perfidious Lord presuming on my [Page 340] Weakness, compleated his pernicious Design. The Day which succeeded that unhappy Night had not yet begun to dawn, when Don Ferdinand, impatient to be gone, made all the haste he cou'd to leave me, and told me, tho' not with so great a show of Affection, nor so warmly as before, that I might rely on his Honour and on the sinceri­ty of his Vows and Promises; and as a further Pledge, he pull'd off a Ring of great Value from his Finger, and put it upon mine. In short he went away, and my Maid, who, as she confess'd it to me, had let him in privately, took care to let him out into the Street by Break of Day, while I remain'd so strangely concern'd at the thoughts of all these Passages, that I cannot well tell whether I was sorry or pleas'd. I was in a man­ner quite distracted, and either forgot, or had not the Heart to chide my Maid for her Treachery, not knowing yet whether she had done me Good or Harm. I had told Don Ferdinand before he went, that seeing I was now his own, he might make use of the same means to come again to see me, till he found it convenient to do me the Honour of owning, me publickly for his Wife: But he came to me only the next Night, and from that time I never cou'd see him more, neither at Church nor in the Street, tho' for a whole Month together I tir'd my self endeavouring to find him out; being credibly inform'd he was still near us, and went a Hunting almost every Day. I leave you to think with what uneasiness I pass'd those tedious Hours, when I perceiv'd his Neg­lect, and had reason to suspect his Breach of Faith. So unexpected a Slight, which I look'd upon as the most sensible Affliction that cou'd be­fal me, had like to have quite overwhelm'd me. Then it was that I found my Maid had betray'd [Page 341] me; I broke out into severe Complaints of her Presumption, which I had smother'd till that time. I exclaim'd against Don Ferdinand, and ex­hausted my Sighs and Tears without asswaging my Sorrow. What was worse, I found my self oblig'd to set a guard upon my very Looks, for fear my Father and Mother shou'd inquire into the cause of my Discontent, and so occasion my being guilty of shameful Lies and Evasions to conceal my more shameful Disaster. But at last I perceiv'd 'twas in vain to dissemble, and I gave a Loose to my Resentments; for I cou'd no longer hold when I heard that Don Ferdinand was marry'd in a neigh­bouring Town to a young Lady of rich and noble Parentage, and extremely handsom, whose Name is Lucinda. Cardenio hearing Lucinda nam'd, felt his former Disorder, but by good Fortune it was not so violent as it us'd to be, and he only shrugg'd up his Shoulders, bit his Lips, knit his Brows, and a little while after let fall a shower of Tears, which did not hinder Dorothea from going on. This News, continu'd she, instead of freezing up my Blood with Grief and Astonishment, fill'd me with burning Rage. Despair took possession of my Soul, and in the transports of my Fury I was ready to run raving thro' the Streets, and publish Don Ferdinand's Disloyalty, tho' at the expence of my Reputation. I don't know whether a remainder of Reason stop'd these violent Motions, but I found my self mightily eas'd as soon as I had pitch'd upon a Design that presently came into my Head. I discover'd the Cause of my Grief to a young country Fellow that serv'd my Father, and desir'd him to lend me a Suit of Man's Apparel, and to go along with me to the Town where I heard Don Ferdinand was. The Fellow us'd the best Arguments he had to hinder me from so [Page 342] strange an Undertaking; but finding I was in­flexible in my Resolution, he assur'd me he was ready to serve me. Thereupon I put on this Habit which you see, and taking with me some of my own Clothes, together with some Gold and Jewels, not knowing but I might have occasion for 'em, I set out that very Night, attended with that Ser­vant and many anxious thoughts, without so much as acquainting my Maid with my Design. To tell you the truth, I did not well know my self what I went about; for as there could be no remedy, Don Ferdinand being actually marry'd to another, what could I hope to get by seeing him, unless it were the wretched satisfaction of upbraid­ing him with his Infidelity? In two days and a half we got to the Town; where the first thing I did was to inquire where Lucinda's Father liv'd. That single question produc'd a great deal more than I desir'd to hear; for the first Man I address'd my self to, shew'd me the House, and inform'd me of all that had happen'd at Lucinda's Marriage; which it seems was grown so publick, that it 'was the talk of the whole Town. He told me how Lucinda swoon'd away as soon as she had answer'd the Priest, that she was contented to be Don Fer­dinand's Wife; and how, after he had approach'd to open her Stays to give her more room to breath, he found a Letter under her own hand, wherein she declar'd she cou'd not be Don Ferdinand's Wife, because she was already contracted to a consider­able Gentleman of the same Town, whose Name was Cardenio; and that she had only consented to that Marriage in obedience to her Father. He also told me, that it appear'd by the Letter, and a Dagger which was found about her, that she de­sign'd to have kill'd her self after the Ceremony was over; and that Don Ferdinand, inrag'd to see [Page 343] himself thus deluded, would have kill'd her him­self with that very Dagger, had he not been pre­vented by those that were present. He added, 'twas reported, that upon this Don Ferdinand im­mediately left the Town; and that Lucinda did not come to her self till the next Day, and then she told her Parents, that she was really Cardenio's Wife, and that he and she were contracted before she had seen Don Ferdinand. I heard also that this Cardenio was present at the Wedding; and that as soon as he saw her marry'd, which was a thing he could never have believ'd, he left the Town in despair, leaving a Letter behind him full of Com­plaints of Lucinda's Breach of Faith, and to inform his Friends of his Resolution to go to some place where they should never hear of him more. This was all the Discourse of the Town when I came thither, and soon after we heard that Lucinda also was missing, and that her Father and Mother were grieving almost to Distraction, not being able to learn what was become of her. For my part, this News reviv'd my hopes, having Reason to be pleas'd to find Don Ferdinand unmarry'd. I flatter'd my self that Heaven had perhaps prevented his second Marriage to make him sensible of his vi­olating the first, and to touch his Conscience, in order to his acquitting himself of his Duty like a Christian, and a Man of Honour. So I strove to beguile my Cares with an imaginary prospect of a far distant Change of Fortune, amusing my self with vain hopes that I might not sink under the load of Affliction, but prolong my Life; tho' this was only a lengthning of my Sorrows, since I have now but the more reason to wish to be eas'd of the trouble of living. But while I staid in that Town, not knowing what I had best to do, seeing I cou'd not find Don Ferdinand, I heard a Crier [Page 344] publickly describe my Person, my Cloaths, and my Age, in the open Street, promising a considerable Reward to any that cou'd bring Tidings of Dorothea. I also heard that 'twas rumour'd I was run away from my Father's House with the Ser­vant who attended me; and that Report touch'd my Soul as much as Don Ferdinand's Perfidiousness; for thus I saw my Reputation wholly lost, and that too for a Subject so base and so unworthy of my nobler Thoughts. Thereupon I made all the haste I cou'd to get out of the Town with my Servant, who even then, to my thinking, began by some Tokens to betray his faultering in the Fidelity he had promis'd me. Dreading to be discover'd, we reach'd the most despart part of this Mountain that Night: But, as 'tis a common Saying, that Mis­fortunes seldom come alone, and the end of one Disaster is often the beginning of a greater, I was no sooner got to that Place, where I thought my self safe, but the Fellow, whom I had hitherto found to be modest and respectful, now rather in­cited by his own Villany, and the Opportunity which that place offer'd, than by any thing else, had the impudence to talk to me of Love; and seeing I answer'd him with Anger and Contempt, he wou'd no longer lose time in clownish Court­ship, but resolv'd to use violence to compass his wicked Design. But just Heaven, with a happy presence of Mind, assisted me in that Distress; and his brutish Passion so blinded him, that not per­ceiving he was on the brink of a steep Rock, I easily push'd him down; and then without look­ing to see what was become of him, I ran as fast I cou'd into the thickest part of the Desart to secure my self. The next Day I met a Country­man, who took me to his House amidst these Mountains, and imploy'd me ever since in the na­ture [Page 345] of his Shepherd. There I have continu'd some Months, making it my business to be as much as possible in the Fields, the better to con­ceal my Sex: But notwithstanding all my Care and Industry, he at last discover'd I was a Woman; which made him presume to importune me with beastly Offers: So that Fortune not favouring me with the former opportunity of freeing my self, I left his House, and chose to seek a Sanctuary among these Woods and Rocks, there with Sighs and Tears to beseech Heaven to pity me, and to direct and relieve me in this forlorn Condition; or at least to put an end to my miserable Life, and bury in this Desart the very Memory of an unhappy Creature, who more thro' ill Fortune than ill Intent, has given the idle World occasion to be too busy with her Fame.

CHAP. II. An Account of the beautiful Dorothea's Dis­cretion, with other pleasant Passages.

THIS, Gentlemen, continu'd Dorothea, is the true Story of my tragical Adventures; and now be you Judges whether I had Reason to make the Complaint you overheard, and whether so un­fortunate and hopeless a Creature be in a Condition to admit of Comfort. I have only one Favour to beg of you; be pleas'd to direct me to some Place where I may pass the rest of my Life secure from the Search and Inquiry of my Parents; not but their former Affection is a sufficient Warrant for [Page 346] my kind Reception, could the Sense I have of the Thoughts they must have of my past Conduct per­mit me to return to 'em; but when I think they must believe me guilty, and can now have nothing but my bare Word to assure 'em of my Innocence, I can never resolve to stand their Sight. Here Dorothea stopt, and the Blushes that overspread her Cheeks were certain Signs of the Discomposure of her Thoughts, and the unfeigned Modesty of her Soul. Those who had heard her Story were deep­ly mov'd with Compassion for her hard Fate, and the Curate would not delay any longer to give her some charitable Comfort and Advice; but scarce had he begun to speak, when Cardenio addressing himself to her interrupted him, How Madam, said he, taking her by the Hand, are you then the beautiful Dorothea, the only Daughter of the rich Cleonardo? Dorothea was strangely surpriz'd to hear her Father nam'd, and by one in so tatter'd a Garb. And pray who are you Friend, said she to him, that know so well my Father's Name? for I think I did not mention it once throughout the whole Relation of my Afflictions. I am Cardenio, reply'd the other, that unfortunate Gentleman, whom Lu­cinda, as you told us, declar'd to be her Husband: I am that miserable Cardenio, whom the Perfidious­ness of the Man who has reduc'd you to this deplo­rable Condition, has also brought to this wretched State, to Rags, to Nakedness, to Despair, nay to Madness it self, and all Hardships and Want of human Comforts; only enjoying the Privilege of Reason by short Intervals, to feel and bemoan my Miseries the more. I am the Man, fair Dorothea, who was the unhappy Eye-witness of Don Ferdi­nand's unjust Nuptials, and who heard my Lucinda give her Consent to be his Wife; that heartless Wretch, who unable to bear so strange a Disappoint­ment, [Page 347] lost in Amazement and Trouble, flung out of the House, without staying to know what would follow her Trance, and what the Paper that was taken out of her Bosom would produce. I a­bandon'd my self to Despair; and having left a Letter with a Person whom I charg'd to deliver it into Lucinda's own Hands, I hasten'd to hide my self from the World in this Desart, resolv'd to end there a Life which from that Moment I abhorr'd as my greatest Enemy. But Fortune has preserv'd me I see that I may venture it upon a better Cause; for from what you have told us now, which I have no Reason to doubt, I am embolden'd to hope that Providence may yet reserve us to a better Fate than we durst have expected; Heaven will re­store you Don Ferdinand, who cannot be Lucinda's, and to me Lucinda, who cannot be Don Ferdinand's. For my Part, tho' my Interests were not link'd with yours, as they are, I have so deep a Sense of your Misfortunes, that I would expose my self to any Dangers to see you righted by Don Ferdinand: And here, on the Word of a Gentleman and a Christian, I vow and promise not to forsake you till he has done you Justice, and to oblige him to do it at the Hazard of my Life, shou'd Reason and Generosity prove ineffectual to force him to be blest with you. Dorothea ravish'd with Joy, and not knowing how to express a due Sense of Carde­nio's obliging Offers, would have thrown her self at his Feet had he not civilly hinder'd it. At the same Time the Curate discreetly speaking for 'em both, highly applauded Cardenio for his generous Resolution, and comforted Dorothea: He also very heartily invited 'em to his House, where they might furnish themselves with Necessaries, and consult together how to find out Don Ferdinand, and bring Dorothea home to her Father; which [Page 348] kind Offer they thankfully accepted. Then the Barber, who had been silent all this while, put in for a Share, and handsomly assur'd them he would be very ready to do 'em all the Service that might lie in his Power. After these Civilities he acquaint­ed 'em with the Design that had brought the Curate and him to that Place; and gave 'em an Account of Don Quixote's strange kind of Madness, and of their staying there for his Squire. Cardenio hearing him mention'd, remember'd something of the Scuffle he had with them both, but only as if it had been a Dream; so that tho' he told the Company of it, he could not let them know the Occasion. By this Time they heard some Body call, and by the Voice they knew it was Sancho Pança, who not finding 'em where he had left 'em, tore his very Lungs with hollowing. With that they all went to meet him; which done, they ask'd him what was be­come of Don Quixote? Alass, answer'd Sancho, I left him yonder in an ill Plight: I found him in his Shirt, lean, pale, and almost starv'd, sighing and whining for his Lady Dulcinea: I told him how that she'd have him come to her presently to Toboso, where she look'd for him out of Hand; yet for all this he would not budge a Foot, but e'en told me he was resolv'd he wou'd ne'er set Eyes on her sweet Face again till he had done some Feats that might make him worthy of her Goodness: So that, added Sancho, if he leads this Life any longer, I fear me my poor Master is ne­ver like to be an Emperor, as he is bound in Ho­nour to be, nay not so much as an Archbishop, which is the least thing he can come off with; therefore, good Sir, see and get him away by all Means I beseech you. The Curate bid him be of good Cheer, for they would take Care to make him leave that Place whether he wou'd or not; [Page 349] and then turning to Cardenio and Dorothea, he in­form'd 'em of the Design which he and the Barber had laid in order to his Cure, or at least to get him home to his House. Dorothea, whose Mind was much eas'd with the Prospect of better Fortune, kindly undertook to act the distress'd Lady her self, which she said she thought wou'd become her better than the Barber, having a Dress very proper for that Purpose, besides she had read many Books of Chivalry, and knew how the distress'd Ladies us'd to express themselves when they came to beg some Knight-Errant's Assistance. This is obliging, Madam, said the Curate, and we want nothing more: So let's to work as fast as we can; we may now hope to succeed since you thus happily facili­tate the Design. Presently Dorothea took out of her Bundle a Petticoat of very rich Stuff, and a Gown of very fine green Silk, also a Necklace, and several other Jewels out of a Box; and with these in an Instant she so ado [...]d her self, and ap­pear'd so beautiful and glorious, that they all stood in Admiration that Don Ferdinand should be so in­judicious to slight so accomplish'd a Beauty. But he that admir'd her most was Sancho Pança; for he thought he had ne'er set Eyes on so fine a Crea­ture, and perhaps he thought right: Which made him earnestly ask the Curate who that fine Dame was, and what Wind had blown her thither among the Woods and Rocks? Who that fine Lady San­cho? answer'd the Curate; she's the only Heiress in a direct Line to the vast Kingdom of Micomicon: Mov'd by the Fame of your Master's great Ex­ploits, that spreads it self over all Guinea, she comes to seek him out, and beg a Boon of him; that is, to redress a Wrong which a wicked Giant has done her. Why that's well, quoth Sancho; a happy Seeking and a happy Finding. Now if my [Page 350] Master be but so lucky as to right that Wrong, by killing that Son of a Whore of a Giant you tell me of, I'm a made Man: Yes he will kill him, that he will, if he can but come at him, and he ben't a Hobgoblin; for my Master can do no Good with Hobgoblins. But Mr. Curate, an't please you, I have a Favour to ask of you: I beseech you put my Master out of Conceit with all Archbisho­pricks, for that's what I dread; and therefore to rid me of my Fears, put it into his Head to clap up a Match with this same Princess; for by that Means 'twill be past his Power to make himself Archbishop, and he'll come to be Emperor and I a great Man as sure as a Gun. I have thought well of the Matter, and I find 'tis not at all sitting he shou'd be an Archbishop for my Good; for what should I get by it? I an't fit for Church Pre­ferment, I am a marry'd Man; and now for me to go to trouble my Head with getting a License to hold Church-Livings, 'twould be an endless Piece of Business: Therefore 'twill be better for him to marry out of hand this same Princess, whose Name I can't tell, for I never heard it. They call her the Princess Micomicona, said the Cu­rate; for her Kingdom being call'd Micomicon, 'tis a clear Case she must be call'd so. Like enough, quoth Sancho; for I have known several Men in my Time go by the Names of the Places where they were born, as Pedro de Alcala, Juan de Ubeda, Diego de Valladolid; and mayhap the like is done in Guinea, and the Queens go by the Name of their Kingdoms. 'Tis well observ'd, reply'd the Cu­rate: As for the Match, I'll promote it to the ut­most of my Power. Sancho was heartily pleas'd with this Promise; and on the other Side, the Curate was amaz'd to find the poor Fellow so strangely infected with his Master's mad Notions, [Page 351] as to rely on his becoming an Emperor. By this Time Dorothea being mounted on the Curate's Mule, and the Barber having clapt on his Ox-tail Beard, nothing remain'd but to order Sancho to shew 'em the Way, and to renew their Admoniti­ons to him, lest he shou'd seem to know 'em, and so spoil the Plot, which if he did, they told him 'twould be the Ruin of all his Hopes and his Ma­ster's Empire. As for Cardenio, he did not think fit to go with 'em, having no Business there; besides, he cou'd not tell but that Don Quixote might re­member their late Fray. The Curate likewise, not thinking his Presence necessary, resolv'd to stay to keep Cardenio Company; so after he had once more given Dorothea her Cue, she and the Barber went before with Sancho, while the two others follow'd on foot at a Distance.

Thus they went on for about three Quarters of a League, and then among the Rocks they spy'd Don Quixote, who had by this Time put on his Cloaths tho' not his Armour. Immediately Doro­thea understanding he was the Person, whipp'd her Palfry, and when she drew near Don Quixote, her Squire alighted and took her from her Saddle. When she was upon her Feet she gracefully ad­vanc'd towards the Knight, and with her Squire falling on her Knees before him, in spight of his Endeavours to the contrary, Thrice valorous and invincible Knight, said she, never will I rise from this Place till your Generosity has granted me a Boon, which shall redound to your Honour, and the Relief of the most disconsolate and most in­jur'd Damsel that the Sun ever saw: And indeed if your Valour and the Strength of your formidable Arm be answerable to the Extent of your im­mortal Renown, you are bound by the Laws of Honour and the Knighthood which you profess, to [Page 352] succour a distress'd Princess, who led by the re­sounding Fame of your marvellous and redoubted Feats of Arms, comes from the remotest Regions to implore your Protection. I cannot, said Don Quixote, make you any Answer, most beautiful La­dy, nor will I hear a Word more unless you vouch­safe to rise. Pardon me, noble Knight, reply'd the petitioning Damsel; my Knees shall first be rooted here, unless you will courteously condescend to grant me the Boon which I humbly request. I grant it then, Lady, said Don Quixote, provided it be nothing to the Disservice of my King, my Country, and that Beauty who keeps the Key of my Heart and Liberty. It shall not tend to the Prejudice or Detriment of any of these, cry'd the Lady. With that Sancho closing up to his Master, and whispering him in the Ear, Grant it Sir, quoth he, grant it I tell ye; 'tis but a Trifle next to no­thing, only to kill a great Looby of a Giant; and she that asks this is the high and mighty Princess Micomicona, Queen of the huge Kingdom of Mico­micon in Ethiopia. Let her be what she will, re­ply'd Don Quixote, I will discharge my Duty and obey the Dictates of my Conscience according to the Rules of my Profession. With that turning to the Damsel, Rise Lady, I beseech you, cry'd he; I grant you the Boon which your singular Beauty demands. Sir, said the Lady, the Boon I have to beg of your magnanimous Valour is, that you will be pleas'd to go with me instantly whi­ther I shall conduct you, and promise me not to en­gage in any other Adventure till you have reveng'd me on a Traytor who usurps my Kingdom, con­trary to the Laws both Human and Divine. I grant you all this, Lady, quoth Don Quixote; and therefore from this Moment shake off all despond­ing Thoughts that sit heavy upon your Mind, [Page 353] and study to revive your drooping Hopes; for by the Assistance of Heaven and my strenuous Arm, you shall see your self restor'd to your Kingdom, and seated on the Throne of your Ancestors, in spight of all the Traitors that dare oppose your Right. Let us then hasten our Performance; De­lay always breeds Danger; and to protract a great Design is often to ruin it. The thankful Princess, to speak her grateful Sense of his Generosity, strove to kiss the Knight's Hand; however he who was in every thing the most gallant and courteous of all Knights, would by no Means admit of such a Submission; but having gently rais'd her up, he embrac'd her with an awful Grace and Civility, and then call'd to Sancho for his Arms. Sancho went immediately, and having fetch'd 'em from a Tree, where they hung like Trophies, arm'd his Master in a Moment And now the Champion being compleatly accoutred, Come on, said he, let us go and vindicate the Rights of this dispossess'd Princess. The Barber was all this while upon his Knees, and had enough to do to keep himself from laughing, and his Beard from falling, which, if it had drop'd off, as it threaten'd, wou'd have betrayed his Face and their whole Plot at once. But being reliev'd by Don Quixote's haste to put on his Armour, he rose up, and taking the Princess by the Hand, they both together set her upon her Mule. Then the Knight mounted his Rozinante, and the Barber got on his Beast. Only poor San­cho was forc'd to foot it, which made him fetch many a heavy Sigh, for the loss of his dear Dap­ple: However, he bore his Crosses patiently, see­ing his Master in so fair a way of being next door to an Emperor; for he did not question but he wou'd marry that Princess, and so be at least King of Micomicon. But yet it griev'd him [Page 354] to think his Master's Dominions were to be in the Land of the Negroes, and that consequently the People over whom he was to be Governour were all to be black. But he presently bethought him­self of a good Remedy for that: What care I, quoth he, tho' they be Blacks? Best of all; 'tis but loading a Ship with them and having 'em into Spain, where I shall find Chapmen enow to take 'em off my Hands, and pay me ready Money for 'em; and so I'll raise a good round Sum, and buy me a Title or an Office to live upon frank and easy all the Days of my Life. Hang him that has no Shifts, say I; it's a sorry Goose that will not baste her self. Why what if I am not so Book-learn'd as other Folks, sure I've a Head-piece good enough to know how to sell ten, twenty, or thirty thousand Slaves. 'Tis as easy as jumping over a Straw. Let 'em e'en go higgle­dy-piggledy, little and great. What tho' they be as black as the Devil in Hell, let me alone to turn 'em into white and yellow Boys: I think I know how to lick my own Fingers. Big with these I­maginations, Sancho trudg'd along so pleas'd and light-hearted that he forgot his Pain of travelling afoot. Cardenio and the Curate had beheld the pleasant Scene thro' the Bushes, and were at a Loss what they should do to join Companies: But the Curate, who had a contriving Head, at last be­thought himself of an Expedient; and pulling out a Pair of Scissars which he us'd to carry in his Pocket, he snipp'd off Cardenio's Beard in a Trice; and having pull'd off his black Cloak and a sad-co­lour'd Riding hood which he had on, he equipp'd Cardenio with 'em, while he himself remain'd in his Doublet and Breeches. In which new Garb Cardenio was so strangely alter'd, that he wou'd not have known himself in a Looking-glass. This [Page 355] done they made to the High-way, and there stay'd till Don Quixote and his Company were got clear of the Rocks and bad Ways, which did not per­mit Horsemen to go so fast as those on foot. When they came near, the Curate look'd very earnestly upon Don Quixote, as one that was in a Study whether he might not know him; and then, like one that had made a Discovery, he ran towards the Knight with open Arms, crying out, Mirrour of Chivalry, my noble Countryman Don Quixote de la Mancha! the Cream and Flower of Gentility! the Shelter and Relief of the Afflicted, and Quin­tessence of Knight-Errantry! How over-joy'd am I to have found you! At the same Time he em­brac'd his left Leg. Don Quixote admiring what Adorer of his heroick Worth this should be, look'd on him earnestly; and at last calling him to Mind, wou'd have alighted to have pay'd him his Re­spects, not a little amaz'd to meet him there. But the Curate hindring him, Reverend Sir, cry'd the Knight, I beseech you let me not be so rude as to sit on Horse-back, while a Person of your Worth and Character is on foot. Sir, reply'd the Curate, you shall by no Means alight: Let your Excellen­cy be pleas'd to keep your Saddle, since thus mounted you every Day atchieve the most stupen­dous Feats of Arms and Adventures that were e­ver seen in our Age. 'Twill be Honour enough for an unworthy Priest, like me, to get up be­hind some of your Company, if they will permit me; and I will esteem it as great a Happiness, as to be mounted upon Pegasus, or the Zebra or Ele­phant of the famous Moor Musaraque, who to this Hour lies inchanted in the dreary Cavern of Zule­ma, not far distant from the great Compluto. Tru­ly, [Page 356] good Sir, I did not think of this, answer'd Don Quixote; but I suppose my Lady the Princess will be so kind as to command her Squire to lend you his Saddle, and to ride behind himself, if his Mule be but us'd to carry double. I believe it will, cry'd the Princess; and my Squire, I sup­pose, will not stay for my Commands to offer his Saddle, for he is too courteous and well-bred to suffer an Ecclesiastical Person to go afoot, when we may help him to a Mule. Most certainly, cry'd the Barber; and with that dismounting, he offer'd the Curate his Saddle, which was accepted without much Intreaty. By ill Fortune the Mule was a hir'd Beast, and consequently unlucky; so as the Barber was getting up behind the Curate; the resty Jade gave two or three Jerks with her hinder Legs, that had they met with Master Ni­cholas's Scull or Ribs, he wou'd have bequeath'd his Rambling after Don Quixote to the Devil. How­ever he flung himself nimbly off, and was more afraid than hurt; but yet as he fell his Beard dropp'd off, and being presently sensible of that Accident, he cou'd not think of any better Shift than to clap both his Hands before his Cheeks, and cry out he had broken his Jaw-bone. Don Quixote was amaz'd to see such an overgrown Bush of Beard lie on the Ground without Jaws and blood­less. Bless me, cry'd he, what an amazing Mira­cle is this! Here's a Beard as cleverly taken off by Accident, as if a Barber had mow'd it. The Cu­rate perceiving the Danger they were in of being discover'd, hastily caught up the Beard, and run­ning to the Barber, who lay all the while roaring and complaining, he pull'd his Head close to his own Breast, and then muttering certain Words, which he said were a Charm appropriated to the fast'ning on of fall'n Beards, he fix'd it on again [Page 357] so handsomely, that the Squire was presently as bearded and as well as ever he was before; which rais'd Don Quixote's Admiration, and made him engage the Curate to teach him the Charm at his Leisure, not doubting but its Virtue extended further than to the fast'ning on of Beards, since 'twas impossible that such a one cou'd be torn off without fetching away Flesh and all; and conse­quently such a sudden Cure might be beneficial to him upon Occasion. And now every thing being set to rights, they agreed that the Curate shou'd ride first by himself, and then the other two by Turns relieving one another, sometimes riding sometimes walking, till they came to their Inn, which was about two Leagues off. So Don Quix­ote, the Princess, and the Curate being mounted, and Cardenio, the Barber, and Sancho ready to move forwards on foot, the Knight addressing himself to the distress'd Damsel, Now Lady, said he, let me intreat your Greatness to tell me which Way we must go to do you Service. The Curate, be­fore she cou'd answer, thought fit to ask her a Que­stion that might the better enable her to make a proper Reply. Pray Madam, said he, towards what Country is it your Pleasure to take your Pro­gress? Is it not towards the Kingdom of Micomi­con? I am very much mistaken if that be not the Part of the World whither you desire to go. The Lady having her Cue, presently understood the Curate, and answer'd that he was in the Right. Then, said the Curate, your Way lies directly through the Village where I live, from whence we have a strait Road to Carthagena, where you may conveniently take Shipping; and if you have a fair Wind and good Weather, you may in some­thing less than nine Years reach the vast Lake Me [...]na, I mean the Palus Moeotis, which lies some­what [Page 358] more than a hundred Days Journey from your Kingdom. Surely, Sir, reply'd the Lady, you are under a Mistake; for 'tis not quite two Years since I left the Place, and besides we have had very little fair Weather all the while, and yet I am already got hither, and have so far succeeded in my Designs, as to have obtain'd the Sight of the renown'd Don Quixote de la Mancha, the Fame of whose Atchievements reach'd my Ears as soon as I landed in Spain, and mov'd me to find him out to throw my self under his Protection, and commit the Justice of my Cause to his invincible Valour. No more Madam, I beseech you, cry'd Don Quixote; spare me the Trouble of hearing my self prais'd, for I mortally hate whatever may look like Adulation; and tho' your Compliments may deserve a better Name, my Ears are too mo­dest to be pleas'd with any such Discourse; 'tis my Study to deserve and to avoid Applause. All I will venture to say, is, that whether I have any Valour or no, I am wholly at your Service, even at the Expence of the last Drop of my Blood; and therefore waving all these Matters till a fit Oppor­tunity, I would gladly know of this reverend Clergyman what brought him hither, unattended by any of his Servants, alone, and so slenderly cloth'd, for I must confess I am not a little sur­priz'd to meet him in this Condition. To tell you the Reason in few Words, answer'd the Cu­rate, you must know that Mr. Nicholas our Friend [...] Barber went with me to Sevil, to receive some Money which a Relation of mine sent me from the Indies, where he has been settl'd these many Years; neither was it a small Sum, for 'twas no less than twenty thousand Pieces of Eight, and all of due Weight, which is no common thing you may well judge: But upon the Road hereabouts [Page 359] we met four Highwaymen that rob'd us of all we had, even to our very Beards, so that the poor Barber was forc'd to get him a Chin-Perriwig. And for that young Gentleman whom you see there (continu'd he, pointing to Cardenio) after they had stripp'd him to his Shirt, they transfi­gur'd him as you see. Now every Body hereabouts says, that those who rob'd us were certainly a Pack of Rogues condemn'd to the Gallies, who, as they were going to Punishment, were rescu'd by a single Man not far from this Place, and that with so much Courage, that in spite of the King's Officer and his Guards he alone set 'em all at Li­berty. Certainly that Man was either mad, or as great a Rogue as any of 'em; for wou'd any one that had a Grain of Sense or Honesty have let loose a Company of Wolves among Sheep, Foxes among innocent Poultry, and Wasps among the Honey-pots? He has hinder'd publick Justice from taking its Course, broke his Allegiance to his lawful Soveraign, disabl'd the Strength of his Gallies, rebell'd against him, and oppos'd his Offi­cers in Contempt of the Law, and set in an Up­roar the holy Brotherhood, those honest Thief-catchers, that had lain quiet so long; nay, what is yet worse, he has endanger'd his Life upon Earth and his Salvation hereafter. Sancho had given the Curate an Account of the Adventure of the Gal­ly-Slaves, and this made him inveigh against it so severely, to try how Don Quixote wou'd bear i [...]. The Knight chang'd Colour at every Word, [...] daring to confess he was the pious Knight-Errant who had deliver'd those worthy Gentlemen out of Bondage. These, said the Curate, by way of Conclusion, were the Men that reduc'd us to this Condition; and may Heaven in Mercy forgive him that freed 'em from the Punishment they so well deserv'd.

CHAP. III. The pleasant Stratagems us'd to free the en­amour'd Knight from the rigorous Penance which he had undertaken.

SCARCE had the Curate made an end, when Sancho addressing himself to him, Faith and Troth, quoth he, Master Curate, he that did that rare Job was my Master his nown self, and that not for want of fair Warning; for I bid him have a Care what he did, and told him over and over, 'twould be a grievous Sin to put such a gang of wicked Wretches out of Durance, and that they all went to the Gallies for their Roguery. You buffleheaded Clown, cry'd Don Quixote, Is it for a Knight-Errant when he meets with People laden with Chains, and under Oppression, to examine whether they are in those Circumstances for their Crimes, or only thro' Misfortune? We are only to relieve the Afflicted, to look on their Distress, and not on their Crimes. I met a Company of poor Wretches, who went along sorrowful, de­jected, and link'd together like the Beads of a Ro­sary; thereupon I did what my Conscience and my Profession oblig'd me to. And what has any Man to say to this? If any one dares say other­wise, saving this reverend Clergyman's Presence and the holy Character he bears, I say, he knows little of Knight Errantry, and lies like a Son of a Whore, and a base-born Villain; and this I will make him know more effectually with the convin­cing [Page 361] edge of my Sword! This said with a grim Look, he fix'd himself in his Stirrups, and pull'd his Helmet o'er his Brows; for the Bason, which he took to be Mambrino's Helmet, hung at his Saddle-bow, in order to have the Damage repair'd which it had receiv'd from the Gally-Slaves. Thereupon Dorothea, by this time well acquainted with his Temper, seeing him in such a Passion, and that every Body except Sancho Pança made a Jest of him, resolv'd with her Native Sprightliness and Address to carry on the Humour. I beseech you, Sir, cry'd she, remember the Promise you have made me, and that you cannot engage in any Ad­venture whatsoever till you have perform'd that we are going about. Therefore pray asswage your Anger; for had Master Curate known the Gally-Slaves were rescu'd by your invincible Arm, I'm sure he wou'd rather have stitch'd up his Lips, or bit off his Tongue, than have spoken a word that shou'd make him incur your Displeasure. Ney, I assure you, cry'd the Curate, I wou'd sooner have twitch'd off one of my Mustachoes into the Bar­gain. I am satisfy'd, Madam, cr'yd Don Quixote, and for your sake the flame of my just Indignati­on is quench'd; nor will I be induc'd to engage in any Quarrel till I have fulfill'd my Promise to your Highness. Only in recompense of my good Intentions, I beg you will give us the Story of your Misfortunes, if this will not be too great a Trouble to you; and let me know who and what, and how many are the Persons of whom I must have due and full Satisfaction on your behalf. I am very willing to do it, reply'd Dorothea, but yet I fear a Story like mine, consisting wholly of Afflictions and Disasters, will prove but a tedious Entertainment. Never fear that, Madam, cry'd Don Quixote. Since then it must be so, said Doro­thea, [Page 362] be pleas'd to lend me your Attention. With that Cardenio and the Barber gather'd up to her, to hear what kind of Story she had provided so soon: Sancho also hung his Ears upon her Side-Saddle, being no less deceiv'd in her than his Master; and the Lady having seated herself well on her Mule, after a hem or two, and other Preparations, very gracefully began her Story.

First, Gentlemen, said she, You must know my Name is—here she stopp'd, and cou'd not call to mind the Name the Curate had given her; whereupon finding her at a nonpluss, he made haste to help her out. 'Tis not at all strange, said he, Madam, that you shou'd be so discompos'd by your Disasters, as to stumble at the very beginning of the Account you are going to give of 'em; ex­treme Affliction often distracts the Mind to that degree, and so deprives us of Memory, that some­times we for a while can scarce think on our very Names: No wonder then, that the Princess Mi­comicona, Lawful Heiress to the vast Kingdom of Micomicon, disorder'd with so many Misfortunes, and perplex'd with so many various Thoughts for the recovery of her Crown, shou'd have her Imagi­nation and Memory so incumber'd; but I hope you will now recollect your self, and be able to proceed. I hope so too, said the Lady, and I will try to go thro' with my Story without any fur­ther Hesitation. Know then, Gentlemen, that the King my Father, who was call'd Tinacrio the Sage, having great Skill in the Magick Art, un­derstood by his profound knowledge in that Sci­ence, that Queen Xaramilla my Mother shou'd dye before him, that he himself shou'd not survive her long, and I shou'd be left an Orphan. But he often said, that this did not so much trouble him, as the foresight he had by his Speculations, of my [Page 363] being threaten'd with great Misfortunes, which wou'd be occasion'd by a certain Giant, Lord of a great Island near the Confines of my Kingdom; his Name Pandafilando, sirnam'd of the gloomy Sight; because tho' his Eye-balls are seated in their due place, yet he affects to squint and look askew on purpose to fright those on whom he stares. My Father, I say, knew that this Giant hearing of his Death wou'd one Day invade my Kingdom with a powerful Army, and drive me out of my Territories, without leaving me so much as the least Village for a Retreat; tho' he knew withal that I might avoid that Extremity, if I wou'd but consent to marry him; but, as he found out by his Art, he had reason to think I never wou'd incline to such a Match. And in­deed I never had any thoughts of marrying this Giant, nor really any other Giant in the World, how unmeasurably Great and Mighty soever he were. My Father therefore charg'd me patiently to bear my Misfortunes, and abandon my King­dom to Pandafilando for a time, without offering to keep him out by force of Arms, since this wou'd be the best means to prevent my own Death, and the ruin of my Subjects; considering the impossibility of withstanding the devilish Force of the Giant. But withal he order'd me to direct my Course towards Spain, where I shou'd be sure to meet with a powerful Champion, in the Person of a Knight-Errant, whose Fame shou'd at that time be spread over all the Kingdom; and his Name, my Father said, shou'd be, if I forget not, Don Azote, or Don Gigote. An't please you, forsooth, quoth Sancho, you wou'd say Don Quixote, otherwise call'd the Knight of the woful Figure. You are right, answer'd Dorothea, and my Father also describ'd him, and said, he shou'd be a tall [Page 364] thin fac'd Man, and that on his right Side, under the left Shoulder, or somewhere thereabouts, he shou'd have a tawny Mole overgrown with a tuft of Hair not much unlike that of a Horse's Main. With that Don Quixote calling for his Squire to come to him, here, said he, Sancho, help me off with my Cloaths, for I'm resolv'd to see whether I be the Knight of whom the Negroman­tick King has prophesy'd. Pray, Sir, why wou'd you pull off your Cloaths, cry'd Dorothea? To see whether I have such a Mole about me as your Fa­ther mention'd, reply'd the Knight. Your Wor­ship need not strip to know that, quoth Sancho, for to my knowledge yo've just such a mark as my Lady says, on the small of your Back, which be­tokens you to be a strong body'd Man. That's e­nough, said Dorothea; Friends may believe one a­nother without such a strict Examination; and whether it be on the Shoulder or on the Backbone, 'tis not very material. In short, I find my Father aim'd right in all his Predictions, and so do I in re­commending my self to Don Quixote, whose Sta­ture and Appearance so well agree with my Fa­ther's Description, and whose Renown is so far spread, not only in Spain, but over all La Mancha, that I had no sooner landed at Ossuna, but the Fame of his Prowess reach'd my Ears; so that I was satisfy'd in my self he was the Person in quest of whom I came. But pray, Madam, cry'd Don Quixote, how did you do to land at Ossuna, since 'tis no Sea-port-Town? Doubtless, Sir, (said the Curate, before Dorothea cou'd answer for her self,) the Princess wou'd say, that after she landed at Malaga, the first place where she heard of your feats of Arms, was Ossuna. That's what I wou'd have said, reply'd Dorothea. 'Tis easily understood, said the Curate; then pray let your Majesty be [Page 365] pleas'd to go on with your Story. I've nothing more to add, answer'd Dorothea, but that Fortune has at last so far favour'd me as to make me find the noble Don Quixote, by whose Valour I look upon my self as already restor'd to the Throne of my Ancestors; since he has so courteously, and magnanimously vouchsaf'd to grant me the Boon I begg'd, to go with me wheresoever I shall guide him. For all I have to do is, to shew him this Pandafilando of the gloomy Sight, that he may slay him, and restore that to me of which he has so unjustly depriv'd me. For all this will certainly be done with the greatest ease in the World, since 'twas foretold by Tinacrio the Sage, my good and Royal Father, who has also left a Prediction writ­ten either in Chaldaean or Greek Characters (for I cannot read 'em) which denotes, That after the Knight of the Prophesy has cut off the Giant's Head, and restor'd me to the Possession of my Kingdom, if he shou'd ask me to marry him, I shou'd by no means refuse him, but instantly put him in possession of my Person and Kingdom. Well, Friend Sancho (said Don Quixote hearing this, and turning to the Squire,) what think'st thou now? Dost thou not hear how matters go? Did not I tell thee as much before? See now, whether we have not a Kingdom which we may command, and a Queen whom we may espouse. Ay marry have you, reply'd Sancho, and a pox take the Son of a Whore, say I, that will not wed and bed her Majesty's Grace as soon as Master Pandafilando's Windpipes are slit. Look what a dainty bit she is! ha! wou'd I never had a worse Flea in my Bed! With that to shew his Joy, he gave two or three frisks in the Air; and turning to Dorothea, lay'd hold on her Mule by the Bridle, and flinging himself down on his [Page 366] Knees, begg'd she wou'd be graciously pleas'd to let him kiss her Hand in token of his owning her for his Soveraign Lady. There was none of the beholders, but was ready to burst for Laugh­ter, having a sight of the Master's Madness, and the Servant's Simplicity. In short, Dorothea was oblig'd to comply with his Entreaties, and pro­mis'd to make him a Grandee when Fortune should favour her with the recovery of her lost Kingdom. Whereupon Sancho gave her his thanks, in such a manner as oblig'd the Company to a fresh Laughter. Then going on with her Relati­on, Gentlemen, said she, this is my History; and among all my Misfortunes, this only has escap'd a recital, That not one of the numerous Attend­ants I brought from my Kingdom has surviv'd the Ruins of my Fortune, but this good Squire with the long Beard: The rest ended their Days in a great Storm which dash'd our Ship to pieces in the very sight of the Harbour; and he and I had been sharers in their Destiny, had we not laid hold of two Planks, by whose Assistance we were driven to Land, in a manner altogether miracu­lous, and agreeable to the whole Series of my Life, which seems indeed but one continu'd Miracle. And if in any part of my Relation I have been tedious, and not so exact as I shou'd have been, you must impute it to what Master Curate ob­serv'd to you, in the beginning of my Story, that continual Troubles oppress the Senses, and weak­en the Memory. Those Pains and Afflictions, be they ever so intense and difficult, said Don Quixote, shall never deter me (most virtuous and highborn Lady) from adventuring for your Service, and enduring whatever I shall suffer in it: And there­fore I again ratify the assurances I've given you, and swear that I will bear you Company, tho' to [Page 367] the end of the World, in search of this implacable Enemy of yours, till I shall find him; whose in­sulting Head, by the help of Heaven, and my own invincible Arm, I am resolv'd to cut off with the Edge of this (I will not say good) Sword; a curse on Gines de Passamonte, who took away my own! This he spoke murmuring to himself, and then prosecuted his Discourse in this manner: And after I have divided it from the Body, and left you quietly possess'd of your Throne, it shall be left at your own choice to dispose of your Per­son, as you shall think convenient: For as long as I shall have my Memory full of her Image, my Will captivated, and my Understanding wholly subjected to Her, whom I now forbear to name, 'tis impossible I should in the least deviate from the Affection I bear to her, or be induc'd to think of marrying another, tho' she were a Phoenix in her kind.

The Close of Don Quixote's Speech, which re­lated to his not marrying, touch'd Sancho so to the quick, that he cou'd not forbear bawling out his Resentments: Body o' me, Sir Don Quixote, cry'd he, you are certainly out of your Wits, or how is it possible you should stick at striking a bargain with so great a Lady as this is? D' you think, Sir, Fortune will put such dainty Bits in your way at every corner? Is my Lady Dulcinea handsomer, d' you think? No marry is she not half so handsome: I cou'd almost say she's not worthy to tye this Woman's Shooes. I am likely indeed to get the Earldom I have fed my self with hopes of, if you spend your time in fishing for Mushrooms in the bottom of the Sea. Marry, marry out of hand, or Old Nick take you for me: Lay hold of the Kingdom which is ready to leap into your hands; and as soon as you are [Page 368] a King e'en make me a Marquess, or a Peer of the Land; and afterwards let things go at sixes and sevens, 'twill be all a Case to Sancho. Don Quixote, quite divested of all Patience at the Blas­phemies which were spoken against his Lady Dul­cinea, cou'd bear with him no longer; and there­fore, without so much as a word to give him no­tice of his Displeasure, gave him two such Blows with his Lance, that poor Sancho measur'd his length on the Ground, and had certainly there breath'd his last, had not the Knight desisted through the Perswasions of Dorothea. Think'st thou (said he after a considerable Pause) most in­famous Peasant, that I shall always have leisure and disposition to put up thy Affronts; and that thy whole business shall be to study new Offences, and mine to give thee new Pardons? Dost thou not know, excommunicated Traitor, (for certainly Excommunication is the least Punishment can fall upon thee, after such Profanations of the peerless Dulcinea's Name,) and art thou not assur'd, vile Slave and ignominious Vagabond, that I shou'd not have strength sufficient to kill a Flea, did not she give strength to my Nerves, and infuse Vigour into my Sinews? Speak, thou Villain with the Vi­per's Tongue; who dost thou imagine has restor'd the Queen to her Kingdom, cut off the Head of the Giant, and made thee a Marquess (for I count all this as done already,) but the Power of Dulcinea, who makes use of my Arm, as the in­strument of her Act in me? She fights and over­comes in me; and I live and breath in her, hold­ing Life and Being from her. Thou base born Wretch! art thou not possess'd of the utmost In­gratitude, thou who seest thy self exalted from the very Dregs of the Earth to Nobility and Honour, and yet dost repay so great a Benefit [Page 369] with Obloquies against the Person of thy Bene­factress?

Sancho was not so mightily hurt, but he cou'd hear what his Master said well enough; where­fore getting upon his Legs in all haste, he ran for shelter behind Dorothea's Palfry, and being got thither, hark you, Sir, cry'd he to him, if you have no thoughts of marrying this same Lady, it's a clear case that the Kingdom will never be yours; and if it be not, what good can you be able to do me? Then let any one judge whether I have not cause to complain. Therefore, good your Worship, marry her once for all, now we have her here rain'd down as it were from Hea­ven to us, and you may after keep Company with my Lady Dulcinea; for I guess you'll not be the only King in the World, that has kept a Miss or two in a corner. As for Beauty, d' you see, I'll not meddle nor make; for (if I must say the truth) I like both the Gentlewomen well enough in Conscience; tho', now I think on't, I have never seen the Lady Dulcinea. How, not seen her, blasphemous Traitor, reply'd Don Quixote, when just now thou brought'st me a Message from her! I say, answer'd Sancho, I have not seen her so leisure­ly as to take notice of her Features and good Parts one by one; but yet, as I saw 'em at a blush and all at once, me thought I had no reason to find fault with 'em. Well, I pardon thee now, said Don Quixote, and thou must excuse me for the Dis­pleasure I have given thee; for the first Motions are not in our Power. I perceive that well e­nough, quoth Sancho, and that's the reason my first Motions are always in my Tongue; and I can't for my life help speaking what comes uppermost. However, Friend Sancho, said Don Quixote, thou hadst best think before thou speakest; for the Pit­cher [Page 370] never goes so oft to the Well—I need say no more. Well, what must be must be, an­swer'd Sancho; there's somebody above who sees all, and will one day judge which has most to answer for, whether I for speaking amiss, or you for doing so. No more of this, Sancho, said Doro­thea, but run, and kiss your Lord's Hands, and beg his Pardon; and, for the time to come, be more advis'd and cautious how you run into the Praise or Dispraise of any Person; but especially take care you do not speak ill of that Lady of To­boso, whom I do not know, tho' I am ready to do her any Service; and for your own Part, trust in Heaven; for you shall infallibly have a Lordship, which shall enable you to live like a Prince. San­cho shrug'd up his Sholders, and in a sneaking Posture went and ask'd his Master for his Hand, which he held out to him with a grave Counte­nance; and after the Squire had kiss'd the back of it, the Knight gave him his Blessing, and told him he had a word or two with him, bidding him come nearer, that he might have the better con­venience of speaking to him. Sancho did as his Master commanded, and going a little from the Company with him; since thy Return, said Don Quixote, addressing himself to him, I have neither had time nor opportunity to inquire into the par­ticulars of thy Embassy, and the Answer thou hast brought; and therefore since Fortune has now befriended us with Convenience and Leisure, deny me not the satisfaction thou may'st give me by the rehearsal of thy News. Ask what you will, cry'd Sancho, and you shall not want for a [...] Answer; but, good your Worship, for the time to come I beseech you don't be too hasty. What occasion hast thou, Sancho, to make this request, reply'd Don Quixote? Reason good enough truly, [Page 371] said Sancho; for the Blows you gave me e'en now, were rather giv'n me on Account of the Quarrel which the Devil stirr'd up between your Wor­ship and me t'other Night, than for your Dislike of any thing which was spoken against my Lady Dulcinea. Prithee, Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote, be careful of falling again into such irreverent Ex­pressions; for they provoke me to anger, and are highly offensive. I pardon'd thee then for being a Delinquent, but thou are sensible that a new Of­fence must be attended with a new Punishment. As they were going on in such discourse as this, they saw at a distance a Person riding up to 'em on an Ass, who, as he came near enough to be distinguish'd, seem'd to be a Gipsy by his Habit. But Sancho Pança, who, whenever he got sight of any Asses, follow'd them with his Eyes and his Heart, as one whose Thoughts were ever fix'd on his own, had scarce giv'n him half an Eye, but he knew him to be Gines de Passamonte, and by the Looks of the Gipsy found out the Visage of his Ass; as really it was the very same which Gines had got under him; who to conceal himself from the knowledge of the Publick, and have the bet­ter opportunity of making a good Market of his Beast, had cloth'd himself like a Gipsy; the Cant of that sort of People, as well as the Languages of other Countries, being as natural and familiar to him as his own. Sancho saw him, and knew him; and scarce had he seen and taken notice of him, when he cry'd out as loud as his Tongue would permit him: Ah! thou Thief Genesillo, leave my Goods and Chattels behind thee; get off from the back of my own dear Life: Thou hast nothing to do with my poor Beast, without whom I can't enjoy a moment's Ease: Away from my Dapple, away from my Comfort; take [Page 372] to thy heels thou Villain; hence thou Hedge-bird, leave what is none of thine. He had no occassi­on to use so many, Words; for Gines dismounted as soon as he heard him speak, and taking to his heels, got from 'em, and was out of sight in an instant. Sancho ran immediately to his Ass, and imbrac'd him: How hast thou done, cry'd he, since I saw thee, my Darling and Treasure, my dear Dapple, the Delight of my Eyes, and my dearest Companion? And then he stroak'd and slabber'd him with Kisses, as if the Beast had been a rational Creature. The Ass for his part was as silent as cou'd be, and gave Sancho the Liberty of as many Kisses as he pleas'd, without the return of so much as one word to the many Questions he had put to him. At sight of this the rest of the Company came up with him, and paid their Com­plements of Congratulation to Sancho for the re­covery of his Ass, especially Don Quixote, who told him that tho' he had found his Ass again, yet would not he revoke the Warrant he had giv'n him for the three Asses; for which favour Sancho return'd him a multitude of Thanks.

While they were travelling together, and dis­coursing after this manner, the Curate address'd himself to Dorothea, and gave her to understand, that she had excellently discharg'd her self of what she had undertaken, as well in the Management of the History it self, as in her Brevity, and adapting her Stile to the particular Terms made use of in Books of Knight-Errantry. She return'd for an­swer, that she had frequently convers'd with such Romances, but that she was ignorant of the Situa­tion of the Provinces, and the Sea Ports, which occasion'd the Blunder she had made, by saying that she landed at Ossuna. I perceiv'd it, reply'd the Curare, and therefore I put in what you heard [Page 373] which brought matters to rights again. But is it not an amazing thing to see how ready this un­fortunate Gentleman is to give credit to these fictitious Reports, only because they have the Air of the extravagant Stories in Books of Knight-Er­rantry? Cardenio said, that he thought this so strange a Madness, that he did not believe the Wit of Man cou'd devise any thing like it, shou'd any one ever start the thought of such another. The Gentleman, reply'd the Curate, has some Qualities in him, ev'n as surprizing in a Madman, as his unparallel'd Frenzy: For, take him but off from his Romantick Humour, to discourse with him of any other Subject, you will find him to handle it with a great deal of Reason, and shew himself by his Conversation to have very clear and entertaining Conceptions: Insomuch, that if Knight-Errantry bears no relation to his Dis­course, there is no Man but will esteem him for his vivacity of Wit, and strength of Judgment. While they were thus discoursing, Don Quixote prosecuting his Converse with his Squire, Sancho, said he, let us lay aside all manner of Animosity, and tell me as speedily as thou canst, without any remains of thy last displeasure, how, when, and where didst thou find my Lady Dulcinea? What was she doing when thou first pay'st thy re­spects to her? How didst thou express thy self to her? What Answer was she pleas'd to make thee? What Countenance did she put on at the perusal of my Letter? Who transcrib'd it fairly for thee? and every thing else which has any re­lation to this Affair, without Addition, Lies, or Flattery. On the other side take care thou losest not a Tittle of the whole matter, by abbreviating it, lest thou rob me of part of that delight which I propose to my self from it. Sir, answer'd San­cho, [Page 374] if I must speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, no body copy'd out the Letter for me; for I carry'd none at all. That's right, cry'd Don Quixote, for I found the Pocket-Book, in which it was written, two days after thy departure, which occasion'd exceeding grief in me, because I knew not what thou couldst do, when thou found'st thy self without the Letter; and I could not but be induc'd to believe that thou wouldst have return'd in order to take it with Thee. I had certainly done so, reply'd Sancho, were it not for this Head of mine, which kept it in Remembrance ever since your Worship read it to me, and help'd me to say it over to a Parish-Clerk, who writ it out for me word for word so purely, that he swore, tho' he had written out many a Letter of Excommunica­tion in his time, he never in all the days of his life had read or seen any thing so well spoken as it was. And dost thou still retain the Memory of it, my dear Sancho, cry'd Don Quixote? Not I, quoth Sancho; for as soon as I had giv'n it her, and your turn was serv'd, I was very willing to forget it. But if I remember any thing, 'tis what was on the top; and it was thus: High and Subter­rene, I would say, Soveraign Lady; and at the bot­tom, Yours untill Death, The Knight of the Woful Figure; and I put between these two things, three hundred Souls, and Lives, and Pigsnyes.

CHAP. IV. The pleasant Dialogue between Don Quixote and his Squire continu'd, with other Ad­ventures.

ALL this is mighty well, said Don Quixote, proceed therefore: You arriv'd, and how was that Queen of Beauty then employ'd? On my Conscience thou found'st her stringing of O­rient Pearls, or imbroideing some curious De­vice in Gold for me her Captive Knight; was it not so, my Sancho? No faith, answer'd the Squire, I found her winnowing a parcel of Wheat very seriously, in the back Yard. Then said the Don, you may rest assur'd that every Corn of that Wheat was a Grain of Pearl, since she did it the honour of touching it with her Divine Hand. Didst thou observe the quality of the Wheat, was it not of the finest sort? Very in­different I thought, said the Squire. Well, this, it least, you must allow; it must make the finest whitest Bread, if sifted by her white Hands: but go on; when you deliver'd my Letter, did she kiss it? Did she treasure it in her Bosom, or what Ceremony did she use worthy such a Letter? How did she behave her self? Why truly Sir, an­swer'd Sancho, when I offer'd her the Letter, she was very busy handling her Sieve; and, prithee honest Friend, said she, do so much as lay that Letter down upon the Sack there; I can't read it till I have winnow'd out what's in my hands. O [Page 376] unparallel'd Discretion, cry'd Don Quixote! she knew that a Perusal requir'd leisure, and there­fore deferr'd it for her more pleasing and private Hours. But on, my Squire; while she was thus employ'd, what Conferences past? what did she ask about her Knight, and what did you reply? Say all, say all, my dearest Sancho, let not the smallest Circumstance scape thy Tongue; speak all that Thought can frame, or Pen describe. Her Questions were easily answer'd, Sir, said San­cho, for she ask'd me none at all: I told her indeed in what a sad pickle I had left you for her sake, naked to the Waste; that you eat and slept like the Brute Beasts; that you wou'd let a Rasor as soon touch your Throat as your Beard; that you were still blubbering and crying, or swearing and cursing your Fortune. There you mistook, re­ply'd Don Quixote, I rather, bless my Fortune, and always shall, while Life affords me Breath, since I am thought to merit the esteem of so high a Lady as Dulcinea del Toboso. There you hit it, said San­cho, she is a high Lady indeed Sir, for she's taller than I am by a Foot and a half. Why, how now, Sancho, said the Knight, hast thou measur'd thy length with her! Ay marry did I, Sir, said the Squire; for you must know, that she desir'd me to lend her a hand in lifting a Sack of Wheat on an Ass; so we buckl'd about it, and I came so close to her, that I found she was taller than I by a full span at least. Right, answered Don Quix­ote, but thou art also conscious that the uncom­mon Stature of her Person is adorn'd with in­numerable Graces and Endowments of Soul; but Sancho, when you approach'd the charming She, did not an Aromatick Smell strike thy Sense, a Scent so Odoriferous, pleasing, and sweet, as I want a Name for it; sweet as—you understand [Page 377] me, as the richest Fragrancy diffus'd around a Perfumer's Magazine of Odours? this at least you must grant me. I did indeed feel a sort of Scent a little unsavory, said Sancho, somewhat vigorous or so; for I suppose she had wrought hard, and sweat somewhat plentifully. 'Tis false, answer'd the Knight, thy smelling has been de­bauch'd by thy own Scent, or some Canker in thy Nose; if thou cou'dst tell the Scent of opening Roses, fragrant Lillies, or the choicest Amber, then thou might'st guess at her's. Cry mercy, Sir, said Sancho, it may be so indeed, for I remem­ber that I my self have smelt very oft just as Madam Dulcinea did then; and that she shou'd smell like me is no such wondrous thing neither, since there's never a Barrel the better Herring of us. But now, said the Knight, supposing the Corn winnow'd and dispatch'd to the Mill; what did she after she had read my Letter? Your Let­ter, Sir! answer'd Sancho, your Letter was not read at all, Sir; as for her part, she said, she cou'd neither read nor write, and she would trust no body else, lest they should tell tales; and so she cunningly tore your Letter. She said that what I told her by Word of Mouth of your Love and Penance, was enough: To make short now, she gave her Service to you, and said she had rather see you than hear from you; and she pray'd you, if ever you lov'd her, upon sight of me forthwith to leave your Madness among the Bushes here, and come strait to Toboso (if you be at leisure,) for she has something to say to you, and has a huge Mind to see you: She had like to burst with laughing, when I call'd you the Knight of the Woful Figure. She told me the Biscayan whom you maul'd so was there, and that he was a very honest Fellow, [Page 378] but that she heard no News at all of the Gally-Slaves.

Thus far all goes well, said Don Quixote; but tell me pray, what Jewel did she present you at your departure, as a reward for the News you brought? for 'tis a Custom of ancient standing among Knights and Ladies-Errant, to bestow on Squires, Dwarfs, or Damsels, who bring them good News of their Ladies or Servants, some precious Jewel as a grateful Reward of their welcom Tidings. Ay, Sir, said Sancho, that was the Fashion in the days of yore; and a very good Fashion, I take it: But all the Jewels San­cho got, was a Luncheon of Bread and a piece of Cheese, which she handed to me over the Wall, when I was taking my Leave; by the same To­ken (I hope there's no Ill Luck in't) the Cheese was made of Sheep's Milk. 'Tis strange, said Don Quixote, for she is Liberal, even to Profuseness; and if she presented thee not a Jewel, she cer­tainly had none about her at that time; but what is deferr'd is not lost, I shall see her, and Matters shall be accommodated. Know'st thou Sancho, what raises my Astonishment; 'tis thy sudden return; for proportioning thy short Ab­sence to the length of thy Journey, Toboso being at least thirty Leagues distant, thou must have ridden on the Wind; certainly the sagacious Inchanter who is my Guardian and Friend, (for doubtless such a one there is and ought to be, or I shou'd not be a true Knight-Errant,) certainly I say, that wise Magician has further'd thee on thy Journey unawares; for there are Sages of such incredible Power, as to take up a Knight-Errant sleeping in his Bed, and waken him next Morning a Thousand Leagues from the place where he fell asleep. By this Power Knight-Er­rants [Page 379] succour one another in their most danger­ous Exigents, when, and where they please; for Instance, suppose me Fighting in the Mountains of Armenia with some hellish Monster, some dreadful Spright, or fierce Gigantick Knight, where perhaps I am like to be worsted, (such a thing may happen,) when just in the very Crisis of my Fate, when I least expect it, be­hold on the top of a flying Cloud, or riding in a flaming Chariot, another Knight my Friend, who but a Minute before was in England perhaps; he sustains me, delivers me from Death, and re­turns that Night to his own Lodging, where he Sups with a very good Appetite after his Journey, having Rid you two or three thousand Leagues that Day: And all this perform'd by the In­dustry and Wisdom of these knowing Magici­ans, whose only Business and Charge is glorious Knight-Errantry. Some such Expeditious Power, I believe Sancho, though hidden from you, has promoted so great a dispatch in your late Jour­ney. I believe indeed (answer'd Sancho) that there was Witchcrafr in the Case, for Rozinante rid without a Spur all the way, and was as mettle­som as though he had been a Gipsy's Ass with Quicksilver in his Ears. Quicksilver! You Cox­comb, said the Knight, ay, and a Troop of Devils besides; and they are the best Horse-coursers in Nature you must know, for they must needs go whom the Devil drives; but no more of that. What is thy Advice as to my Lady's Commands to visit her? I know her Power should regulate my Will; but then my Honour, Sancho, my so­lemn Promise has engag'd me to the Princess's Service that comes with us, and the Law of Arms confines me to my Word: Love draws me one, and Glory t'other way; on this side Dulcinea's [Page 380] strict Commands, on the other my promis'd Faith; but—'tis resolv'd. I'll travel Night and Day, cut off this Giant's Head, and having settl'd the Princess in her Dominions, will presently return to see that Sun which enlightens my Senses: She will easily condescend to ex­cuse my Absence, when I convince her 'twas for her Fame and Glory; since the past, present, and future Success of my Victorious Arms depends wholly on the gracious Influences of her Favour, and the Honour of being her Knight. Oh sad, oh sad! said Sancho, I doubt your Worship's Head is much the worse for wearing: Are you Head, Sir, to take so long a Voyage for nothing? Why don't you catch at this Perferment that now offers, where a fine Kingdom is the Portion, twenty thousand Leagues round, they say; nay, bigger than Portugal and Castile both together— Good your Worship! hold your Tongue, I wonder you are not asham'd—take a Fool's Counsel for once, Marry her by the first Priest you meet, here's our own Curate can do the Job most curiously: Come Master. I have Hair enough in my Beard to make a Councellor, and my Advice is as fit for you, as your Shooe for your Foot; a Bird in Hand is worth two in the Bush, and

Thou advisest me thus, answer'd Don Quix­ote, that I may be able to Promote thee accord­ing to my Promise; but that I can do without Marrying this Lady: For I shall make this the Condition of entring into Battel; that after my Victory, without Marrying the Princess, she [Page 381] shall leave part of her Kingdom at my disposal, to gratify whom I please; and who can claim any such Gratuity but thy self? That's plain, answer'd Sancho, but pray Sir, take care that you reserve some part near the Sea-side for me; that if the Air does not agree with me, I may transport my Black Slaves, make my Profit of them, and go live somewhere else; so that I would have you resolve upon it presently, leave the Lady Dul­cinea for the present, and go kill this same Gi­ant, and make an end of that Business first, for I dare swear 'twill yield you a good Market. I am fix'd in thy Opinion (said Don Quixote) but I admonish thee not to whisper to any Person the least hint of our Conference; for since Dulcinea is so cautious and secret, 'tis proper that I and mine should follow her Example. Why the De­vil then, said Sancho, should you send every Body you overcome packing to Madam Dulcinea, to fall down before her, and tell her they came from you to pay their Obedience, when this tells all the World that she's your Mistress as much as if they had it under your own Hand? How dull of Apprehension and Stupid thou art, said the Knight; hast thou not Sence to find that all this redounds to her greater Glory? Know that in proceedings of Chivalry, a Lady's Honour is Calculated from the number of her Servants, whose Services must not tend to any reward, but the Favour of her Acceptance, and the pure Honour of performing them for her sake, and being call'd her Servants. I have heard our Curate, answer'd Sancho, Preach up this Doctrine of loving for Love's-sake, and that we ought to love our Maker so for his own-sake, with­out either hope of Good, or fear of Pain; though for my part I would love and serve him for what [Page 382] I could get. Thou art an unaccountable Fellow, cry'd Don Quixote; thou talk'st sometimes with so much Sense, that one would imagine thee to be something of a Scholar. A Schollard, Sir, answer'd Sancho, lack a-day, I don't know, as I'm an honest Man, a Letter in the Book. Master Nicholas seeing them so deep in Discourse, call'd to them to stop and drink at a little Fountain by the Road: Don Quixote halted, and Sancho was very glad of the Interruption, his Stock of Lies be­ing almost spent, and he stood in Danger besides of being trapp'd in his Words, for he had never seen Dulcinea, though he knew she liv'd at Toboso. Cardenio by this had chang'd his Cloaths for those Dorothea wore, when they found her in the Mountains; and though they made but an ordi­nary Figure, they look'd much better than his own. They all stopp'd at the Fountain, and fell aboard the Curate's Provision, which was but a Snap among so many, for they were all very hungry. While they sat refreshing themselves, a young Lad travelling that way, observ'd them, and looking earnestly on the whole Company, ran suddenly and fell down before Don Quixote, addressing him in a very doleful Manner. Alas, good Sir, said he, don't you know me? don't you remember poor Andrew whom you caus'd to be unty'd from the Tree? With that the Knight knew him; and raising him up, turn'd to the Company, That you may all know, said he, of how great Importance to the Redressing of Inju­ries, Punishing Vice, and the universal Benefit of Mankind the Business of Knight-Errantry may be, you must understand, that riding through a Desart some days ago, I heard certain lamentable Screekes and Out-cries: Prompted by the Misery of the Afflicted, and born away by the Zeal of [Page 383] my Profession, I follow'd the Voice, and found this Boy whom you all see, bound to a great Oak; I'm glad he's present, because he can attest the Truth of my Relation. I found him as I told you, bound to an Oak, naked from the Waste upwards, and a bloudy-minded Peasant scourg­ing his Back unmercifully with the Reins of a Bridle. I presently demanded the cause of his severe Chastisement? The rude Fellow answer'd, That he had liberty to punish his own Servant, whom he thus us'd for some Faults that argu'd him more Knave than Fool. Good Sir, said the Boy, he can lay nothing to my Charge, but demanding my Wages. His Master made some reply, which I would not allow as a just Excuse; and order'd him immediately to unbind the Youth, and took his Oath that he would take him home and pay him all his Wages upon the Nail, in good and lawful Coin. Is not this literally true Andrew? Did you not mark besides with what Face of Au­thority I Commanded, and with how much Hu­mility he promis'd to obey all I impos'd, com­manded, and desir'd? Answer me, Boy, and tell boldly all that pass'd to this worthy Company, that it may appear how necessary the Vocation of Knight-Errants is upon the Roads.

All you have said is true enough, answer'd Andrew, but the Business did not end after that manner you and I hop'd it would. How? said the Knight, has not the Peasant paid you? Ay, he has paid me with a Vengeance, said the Boy; for no sooner was your Back turn'd, but he ty'd me again to the same Tree, and lash'd me so cur­sedly, that I look'd like St. Bartholomew flea'd alive; and at every blow he had some Joke or another to laugh at you; and had he not laid me on as he did, I fancy I could not have help'd laughing [Page 384] my self. At last he left me in so pitiful a Case, that I was for'd to crawl to an Hospital, where I have lain ever since to get cur'd, so wofully the Tyrant had lash'd me. And now I may thank you for this, for had you rid on your Jour­ney, and neither meddl'd nor made, seeing no Body sent for you, and 'twas none of your Bu­siness, my Master perhaps had been satisfy'd with giving me ten or twenty Lashes, and after that would have paid me what he ow'd me; but you was so huffy, and call'd him so many Names, that it made him mad, and so he vented all his Spight against you upon my poor Back as soon as yours was turn'd, insomuch that I fear I shall never be my own Man again. The Miscarriage, answer'd the Knight, is only chargeable on my departure before I saw my Orders executed; for I might by Experience have remembred, that the Word of a Peasant is regulated, not by Honour, but Profit. But you remember, Andrew, how I swore if he disobey'd, that I would return and seek him through the Universe, and find him tho' hid in the Whale's Belly. Ay, Sir answer'd Andrew, but that's no cure for my sore Shoulders. You shall be redress'd, answer'd the Knight, starting fiercely up, and commanding Sancho immediately to bridle Rozinante, who was Baiting as fast as the rest of the Company. Dorothea ask'd what he intended to do? he answer'd that he intended to find out the Villain and punish him severely for his Crimes, then force him to pay Andrew his Wages to the last^* Mara­vedi, in spight of all the Peasants in the Universe. She then desir'd him to remember his Engagement to her, which withheld him from any new At­chievement [Page 385] till that was finish'd; that he must therefore suspend his Resentments till his Return from her Kingdom. 'Tis but just and reasonable, said the Knight, and therefore Andrew must wait with Patience my Return; but when I do return, I do hereby Ratify my former Oath and Promise, never to rest till he be fully satisfy'd and paid. I dare not trust to that, answer'd Andrew; but if you'll bestow on me as much Money as will bear my Charges to Sevill, I shall thank your Worship more than for all the Revenge you tell me of: Give me a snap to eat, and a bit in my Pocket, and so Heav'n be wi'ye and all other Knight-Errants, and may they prove as arrant Fools in their own Business as they have been in mine.

Sancho took a Crust of Bread, and a slice of Cheese; and reaching it to Andrew, there Friend, said he, there's something for thee; on my Word, we have all of us a share of thy Mischance. What share, said Andrew? Why, the curs'd mischance of parting with this Bread and Cheese to thee; for my Head to a Half-penny, I may live to want it; for thou must know, Friend of mine, that we the Squires of Knight-Errants often pick our Teeth without a Dinner, and are subject to many other things which are better felt than told. An­drew snatch'd at the Provender, and seeing no likelihood of any more, he made his Leg and went off. But looking over his Shoulder at Don Quix­ote, hark ye, you Sir Knight-Errant, cry'd he, if ever you meet me again in your Travels, which I hope you never shall; though I were torn in pie­ces, do'nt trouble me with your plaguy help, but mind your own Business; and so fare you well, with a Curse upon you and all the Knight-Errants that ever were born. The Knight thought to Chastise him, but the Lad was too nimble for [Page 386] any there, and his Heels carry'd him off; leaving Don Quixote highly incens'd at his Story, which mov'd the Company to hold their Laughter, lest they should raise his Anger to a dangerous height.

CHAP. V. What befell Don Quixote and his Company, at the Inn.

WHEN they had eaten plentifully, they left that Place, and travell'd all that Day and the next without meeting any thing worth notice, till they came to the Inn, which was so frightful a Sight to poor Sancho, that he wou'd willingly not have gone in, but could by no means avoid it. The Inn-keeper, the Hostess, h [...] Daughter, and Mari [...]ornes, met Don Quixote and [...] Squire with a very hearty Welcome: The Knight receiv'd them with a Face of Gravity and Appro­bation, bidding them prepare him a better Bed than their last Entertainment afforded him. Si [...], said the Hostess, pay us better than you did then, and you shall have a Bed for a Prince; and upon the Knight's Promise that he would, she provi­ded him a tolerable Bed in the large Room where he lay before: He presently undress'd, and being heartily craz'd in Body as well as in Mind, he went to Bed; he was scarcely got to his Cham­ber, when the Hostess flew suddenly at the Bar­ber, and catching him by the Beard; on my life; said she, you shall use my Tail no longer for a [Page 387] Beard, pray Sir give me my Tail, my Husband wants it to stick his thing into, his Comb I mean, and my Tail I will have, Sir. The Barber held tugg with her till the Curate advis'd him to re­turn it, telling him that he might now undis­guise himself, and tell Don Quixote that after the Gally-Slaves had pillag'd him, he fled to that Inn; and if he should ask for the Princess's Squire, he shou'd pretend that he was dispatch'd to her King­dom before her, to give her Subjects an Account of her arrival, and of the Power she brought to free them all from Slavery. The Barber thus school'd, gave the Hostess her Tail, with the other Trinkets which he had borrow'd to decoy Don Quixote out of the Desart. Dorothea's Beauty, and Cardenio's handsome Shape surpriz'd every Body. The Curate bespoke Supper, and the Host being pretty secure of his Reckoning, soon got them a tolerable Entertainment. They would not disturb the Knight, who slept very soundly, for his Distemper wanted Rest more than Meat; but they diverted themselves with the Hostess's Account of his Encounter with the Carriers, and of Sancho's being toss'd in a Blanket. Don Quixote's unaccountable Madness was the principal Subject of their Discourse, upon which the Curate insisting, and arguing it to proceed from his reading Ro­mances, the Inn-keeper took him up. Sir, said he, you can't make me of your Opinion; for in my Mind, it is the pleasantest Reading that ever was. I have now in the House two or three Books of that kind, and some other Pieces, that really have kept me and many others alive. In Harvest-time a great many of the Reapers come to drink here in the heat of the Day, and he that can read best among us takes up one of these Books; and all the rest of us, sometimes thirty [Page 388] or more, sit round about him, and listen with such pleasure, that we think neither of Sorrow nor Care; as for my own Part, when I hear the mighty Blows and dreadful Battels of these Knight-Er­rants, I have half a mind to be one my self, and am rais'd to such a life and briskness, that I frighten away old-Age; I could sit and hear them from Morning till Night. I wish you wou'd Husband, said the Hostess, for then we should have some rest; for at all other times you are so out of hu­mour and so snappish, that we lead a hellish life with you. That's true enough, said Maritornes; and for my part I think there are mighty pretty Stories in those Books, especially that one about the young Lady who is hugg'd so sweetly by her Knight under the Orange-Tree, when the Damsel watches lest some Body comes, and stands with her Mouth watering all the while; and a thousand such Stories, which I would often forgot my Dinner and Supper to hear. And what think you of this Matter young Miss, said the Curate to the Inn-Keepers Daughter? Alack a-day, Sir, said she, I don't understand those things, and yet I love to hear 'em; but I don't like that frightful ugly fighting that so pleases my Father. Indeed the sad Lamentations of the poor Knights for the Loss of their Mistresses, sometimes makes me cry like any thing. I suppose then young Gentle­woman, said Dorothea, you will be tender-hearted, and will never let a Lover die for you. I don't know what may happen as to that, said the Girl; but this I know, that I will never give any Body reason to call me Tygress and Lionness, and I don't know how many other ugly Names, as those Ladies are often call'd, and I think they deserve yet worse, so they do; for they can have neither Soul or Conscience to let such fine Gentlemen die [Page 389] or run mad for a sight of them? What signifies all their fiddling and coyness? If they are civil Women, why don't they Marry 'em, for that's all their Knights wou'd be at? Hold your prating Mistress, said the Hostess, how came you to know all this? 'Tis not for such as you to talk of these Matters. The Gentleman only ask'd me a Questi­on, said she, and it would be uncivil not to an­swer him. Well, said the Curate, do me the favour, good Landlord, to bring out these Books that I may have a sight of them.

With all my Heart, said the Inn-keeper; and with that stepping to his Chamber, he open'd a little Portmantle that shut with a Chain, and took out three large Volumes with a parcel of Manuscripts in a fair legible Letter: The Title of the first was Don Cirongilio of Thrace, the se­cond Felixmarte of Hircania, and the third was the History of the Great Captain Gonçalo Hernandez de Corduba, and the Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes, bound together. The Curate reading the Titles, turn'd to the Barber, and told him, they wanted now Don Quixote's House-keeper and his Niece; I shall do as well with the Books said the Barber, for I can find the way to the Back-yard, or the Chimney, there's a good Fire that will do their Business. Business! said the Inn-keeper, I hope you wou'd not burn my Books. Only two of them, said the Curate, this same Don Cirongilio and his Friend Felixmarte. I hope Sir, said the Host, they are neither Hereticks nor Flegmaticks, Schismaticks you mean, said the Barber; I mean so said the Inn-keeper, and if you must burn any, let it be this of Gonçalo Hernandez and Diego Garcia, for you should sooner burn one of my Children than the others. These Books honest Friend, said the Curate, that you appear so concern'd for, [Page 390] are sensless Rhapsodies of Falshoods and Folly; and this which you so despise is a true History, and contains a true Account of two celebrated Men; the first by his Bravery and Courage pur­chas'd immortal Fame, and the Name of the Great General, by the universal Consent of Mankind. The other, Diego Garcia de Paredes, was of Noble Extraction, and born in Truxillo a Town of Estremadura, and was a Man of sin­gular Courage, and such mighty Strength, that with one of his Hands he could stop a Mill-wheell in its most rapid Motion; and with his single Force defended the Passage of a Bridge a­gainst a great Army. Several other great Actions are related in the Memoirs of his Life, but all with so much Modesty and unbiass'd Truth, that they easily pronounce him his own Historiogra­pher; and had they been written by any one else, with Freedom and Impartiality, they might have eclips'd your Hector's, Achilloses, and Orlando's with all their Heroick Exploits. That's a fine Jest, faith, said the Inn-keeper, my Father could have told you another Tale, Sir. Holding a Mill-wheel! why, is that such a mighty Matter! one's fish, do but turn over a Leaf of Felixmarte there; you'll find how with one single Back-stroke he cut five swinging Giants off by the middle, like so many Bean-stalks; and read how at other time he Charg'd a most Mighty and Powerful Army of above a Million and Six hundred thou­sand fighting Men, all Arm'd Cap-a-pee, and Routed them all like so many Sheep. And what can you say of the Worthy Cirongilio of Thrace, who, as you may read there, going by Water one Day, was assaulted by a fiery Serpent in the mid­dle of the River; he presently leap'd nimbly up­on her Back, and hanging by her Scaly Neck [Page 391] grasp'd her Throat fast with both his Arms, so that the Serpent finding her self almost strangl'd, was forc'd to dive into the Water to save her self, and carry'd the Knight who would not quit his hold, to the very bottom, where he found a Stately Palace and such pleasant Gardens, that 'twas a wonder; and strait the Serpent turn'd into a very old Man, and told him such things as were never heard nor spoken.—Now a Fig for your great Captain, and your Diego Garcia. Cardenio and Dorothea hearing the vehemence of his Discourse, imagin'd that he wou'd make another Don Quixote; I tell thee Friend, (said the Curate) there were never any such Persons as your Books of Chivalry mention, upon the Face of the Earth; your Felixmarte of Hircania, and your Cirongilio of Thrace, are all but Chimeras and Fictions of idle and luxuriant Wits, who wrote them for the same Reason that you read them, because they had nothing else to do. Sir, (said the Inn-keeper) you must Angle with another Bait, or you'll catch no Fish. I know what's what, as well as another; I can tell where my own Shooe pinches me; and you must not think Sir, to catch old Birds with Chaff; 'tis a pleasant Jest, faith, that you should pretend to perswade me now that these notable Books are Lies and Stories; why Sir, are they not in Print? Are they not Publish'd according to Order? Li­cens'd by Authority from the Privy Council? And do you think that they would permit so many Lies to be Printed at once, and such a Number of Battels and Enchantments to set us all a madding? I have told you already (Friend) reply'd the Curate, that this is Licens'd for our Amusement in our idle Hours; for the same Reason that Tennis, Billiards, Chess, and other [Page 392] Recreations are tolerated, that Men may find a Pastime for those hours they cannot find Im­ployment for. Neither could the Government foresee this Inconvenience from such Books, that you urge, because they could not reasonably sup­pose any Rational Person would believe their Ab­surdities. And were this a proper time, I could say a great deal in Favour of such Writings, and how with some Regulations they might be made both instructive and diverting; but I design up­on the first Opportunity to communicate my thoughts on this Head to some that may Redress it: In the mean time, honest Landlord, you may put up your Books, and believe them true if you please, and much good may do you. And I wish you may never have the same blind side with your Guest Don Quixote. There's no fea [...] of that, said the Inn-keeper, for I never design to turn Knight-Errant, because I find the Customs that supported that Noble Order are quite out of Doors.

About the middle of their Discourse, enter'd Sancho, whom their Conversation, especially on the Curate's side, made very uneasie; he resolv'd however (in spight of all their Contempt of Chivalry) still to stick by his Master; and if his intended Expedition fail'd of Success, then to return to his Family and Plough. As the Inn-keeper was carrying away the Books, the Curate desir'd his leave to look over those Manuscripts which appeared in so fair a Character; he reach'd them to him, to the number of eight Sheets, on one of which there was written in a large Hand, The Novel of the curious Impertinent. The Title, said the Curate, promises something, perhaps it may be worth reading through; your Reverence, said the Inn-keeper, may be worse employ'd; for [Page 393] those Papers have receiv'd the Approbation of several ingenious Guests of mine that read them, and who would have begg'd them of me; but I would by no means part with them, till I deliver them to the Owner of this Portmantle who for­got it here with these Books and Papers; I may perhaps see him again, and restore them honestly, for I am as much a Christian as my Neighbours, though I am an Inn-keeper. But I hope (said the Curate) if it pleases me you won't deny a Copy of it. Nay, as to that Matter, said the Host) we shan't fall out. Cardenio having by this perus'd it a little, recommended it to the Curate, and intreated him to read it for the Entertainment of the Company. The Curate would have ex­cus'd himself by urging the unseasonable time of Night, and that sleep was then more proper, especially for the Lady; a pleasant Story, said Dorothea, will prove the best Repose for some hours to me, for my Spirits are not compos'd enough to allow me to rest though I want it. Mr. Nicholas and Sancho joyn'd in the Request. To please ye then, and satisfy my own Curiosity, said the Curate, I'll begin, if you'll but give your Attention.

CHAP. VI. The Novel of the Curious Impertinent.

ANselmo, and Lothario, Considerable Gentle­men of Florence, the Capital City of Tuscany, in Italy, were so eminent for their Friendship, that they were call'd nothing but the Two Friends. They were both Young and Unmarry'd, of the same Age and Humour, which did not a little concur to the continuance of their mutual Af­fection, though, of the two, Anselmo was the most Amorously inclin'd, and Lothario the greater lo­ver of Hunting; yet they lov'd one another a­bove all other Considerations, and mutually quit­ted their own Pleasure for their Friend's; and their very Wills, like the different Motions of a well regulated Watch, were always subser­vient to their Unity, and still kept time with one another. Anselmo at last, fell desperately in love with a Beautiful Lady of the same City; so Emi­nent for her Fortune and Family, that he resolv'd by the Consent of his Friend (for he did nothing without his Advice) to demand her in Marriage. Lothario was the Person employ'd in this Affair, which he manag'd with that Address, that in a few days he put his Friend into Possession of Ca­milla, for that was the Lady's Name; and this so much to their Satisfaction, that he receiv'd a thou­sand Acknowledgments from both, for the equal Happiness they deriv'd from his endeavours. Lo­thario, as long as the Nuptials lasted, was every [Page 395] day at Anselmo's, and did all he could to add to the Sports and Diversions of the Occasion. But as soon as the new marry'd Pair had receiv'd the Congratulation of their Friends, and the Nuptial Ceremonies were over, Lothario retir'd with the rest of their Acquaintance, and forbore his Visits, because he prudently imagin'd, that it was not at all proper to be so frequent at his Friend's House after Marriage as before; for tho' true Friendship entirely Banishes all Suspicion and Jealousy, yet the Honour of a Marry'd Man is of so Nice and tender a Nature, that it has been sometimes sully'd by the Conversation of the nearest Relations, and therefore more liable to suffer from that of a Friend. Anselmo observ'd this Remissness of Lothario, and, fond as he was of his Wife, shew'd by his tender Complaints how much it affected him. He told him, that if he could have believ'd he must have lost so dear a Correspondence by Marriage; as much as he lov'd, he would never have paid so great a price for the Satisfaction of his Passion; and that he would never for the idle Reputation of a cautious Husband, suffer so tender and agree­able a Name to be lost as that of The two Friends, which before his Marriage they had so happily obtain'd; and therefore he begg'd him, if that were a Term Lawful to be us'd betwixt them two, to return to his former Familiarity and Freedom of Conversation; assuring him that his Wife's Will and Pleasure were entirely form'd by his, and that being acquainted with their anci­ent and strict Friendship, she was equally sur­priz'd at so unexpected a Change. Lothario reply'd to these endearing Persuasions of his Friend, with such Prudence and Discretion, that he convinc'd him of the sincerity of his intentions in what [Page 396] he had done; and so in conclusion they agreed that Lothario should Dine twice a Week at his House besides Holy-days. Yet Lothario's Com­pliance with this Resolution being only not to disoblige his Friend, he design'd to observe it no farther then he should find it consistent with An­selmo's Honour, whose Reputation was as dear to him as his own; and he us'd to tell him, that the Husband of a beautiful Wife ought to be as cautious of the Friends whom he carry'd home to her himself, as other female Acquaintance, and Visitants. For a Friend's, or Relation's House, often renders the contrivance of those things easie, and not suspected, which could not be compass'd either in the Church, the Markets, or at publick Entertainments and Places of Resort, which no Man can entirely keep a Woman from frequenting. To this Anselmo reply'd, that for that very Reason every Marry'd Man ought to have some Friend to put him in mind of the de­fects of his Conduct; for a Husband's Fondness many times makes him either not see, or at least for fear of displeasing his Wife, not command or forbid her what may be advantagious or prejudi­cial to his Reputation. In all which, a Friend's Warning and Advice might supply him with a proper Remedy. But where shall we find a Friend, so qualify'd with Wisdom and Truth as Anselmo demands? I must confess I cannot tell, unless it were Lothario, whose Care of his Friend's Honour made him so cautious as not to comply with his promis'd visiting Days, lest the Malicious Ob­servers should give a Scandalous Censure of the frequent Admission of so well qualify'd a Gentleman, both for his Wit, Fortune, Youth, and Address, to the House of a Lady of so celebra­ted a Beauty as Camilla. For though his Virtue [Page 397] was sufficiently known, to check the Growth of any malignant Report, yet he would not suffer his Friend's Honour nor his own to run the ha­zard of being call'd in Question; which made him spend the greatest part of those Days he had by Promise devoted to his Friend's Conversation, in other Places and Employments; yet excusing his Absence so agreeably, that Anselmo could not deny the Reasonableness of what he alledg'd. And thus the time pass'd away in pathetick Ac­cusations, of want of Love and Friendship on one side, and plausible Excuses on the other.

I know very well, said Anselmo, walking one Day in the Fields with his Friend, that of all the Favours and Benefits for which Heaven commands my Gratitude, as the Advantage of my Brith, For­tune, and Nature; the greatest and most obli­ging is the Gift of such a Wife, and such a Friend; being both of you Pledges of so great value, that tho' 'tis impossible for me to raise my Esteem and Love equal to your Deserts, yet is no Man capable of having a greater. And yet while I am in Possession of all that can or usually does make a Man happy, I live the most discontented life in the World. I am not able to tell you when my Misery began, which now inwardly torments me with so strange, extravagant, and singular a De­sire, that I never reflect on it, but I wonder at my self, and condemn and curb my Folly, and would fain hide my Desires even from my self: And yet I have receiv'd no more advantage from this pri­vate Confusion, then if I had publish'd my Extra­vagance to all the World. Since therefore 'tis evident that it will at last break out, dear Lotha­rio, I would have it go no farther than thy known Fidelity and Secresy; for that and my own In­dustry (which as my Friend thou wilt turn to my [Page 398] Assistance) will quickly I hope free me from the Anguish it now gives me, and restore me that Tranquility of which my own Folly has now de­priv'd me.

Lothario stood in great suspense, unable to guess at the Consequence of so strange and prolix an Introduction. In vain he rack'd his Imagination for the Causes of his Friend's Affliction, the Truth was the last thing he could think of; but no longer to remain in doubt, he told Anselmo, that he did his Friendship a particular Injury, in not coming directly to the Point in the discovery of his Thoughts to him, since his Counsels might enable him to support, and perhaps to lose or com­pass such importunate Desires.

'Tis very true, reply'd Anselmo, and with that Assurance I must inform you, that the Desire that gives me so much Pain, is to know whether Camil­la be really as Virtuous as I think her. Nor can this be made evident but by such a Trial, that like Gold by the Fire the Standard and Degree of her Worth be discover'd. For in my Opini­on, no Woman has more Virtue than she retains after the force of the most earnest Solicitations▪ Casta est quam nemo rogavit: And she only may be said to be Chaste who has withstood the Force of Tears, Vows, Promises, Gifts, and all the Impor­tunities of a Lover that is not easily deny'd: For where's the Praise of a Woman's Virtue whom no Body has ever endeavour'd to corrupt? Where is the Wonder if a Wife be Reserv'd, when she has no Temptation nor Opportunity of being other­wise; especially if she have a jealous Husband with whom the least Suspicion goes for a Reality, and who therefore punishes the least Appearances with Death. Now I can never so much esteem her, who owes her Virtue merely to Fear or want [Page 399] of Opportunity of being False, as I would one who Victoriously surmounts all the Assaults of a vigorous and watchful Lover, and yet retains her Virtue intire and unshaken. These, and many others Reason, which I could urge to strengthen my Opinion, make me desire that my Camilla's Virtue may pass through the fiery Trial of vigo­rous Solicitations and Addresses, and these offer'd by a Gallant, who may have Merit enough to deserve her good Opinion; and if, as I am confi­dent she will, she be able to resist so agreeable a Temptation, I shall think my self the most hap­py Man in the World, and attain to the height and utmost aim of my Desires; and shall say, that a Virtuous Woman is fallen to my Lot, of whom the Wise Man says, Who can find her? If she yields, I shall at least have the Satisfaction of finding my Opinion of Women justify'd; and not be impos'd on by a foolish Confidence, that abuses most Men; which Consideration will be sufficient to make me support the Grief I shall derive from so expensive an Experiment. And, assuring my self that nothing which you can say can disswade me from my Resolution, I desire that you your self, my dear Friend, would be the Person to put my Design in Execution. I will furnish you with Op­portunities enough of making your Addresses, in which I would have you omit nothing you may suppose likely to prevail, and mollify a Woman of Quality, without Passion, and reserv'd, and discreet by Nature. The most prevailing Reason that makes me choose you for this Affair above all others; is, because if she should prove so frail as to be overcome by Address and Impor­tunities, the Victory will not cost me so dear, since I am secur'd from your taking that Advan­tage of which another might make no Scruple. [Page 400] And so my Honour will remain untouch'd, and the intended Injury a Secret, in the Virtue of thy Silence; for I know my Friend so well, that Death and the Grave will as soon divulge my Affairs. Wherefore if you would give me Life indeed, and deliver me from the most perplexing Torment of Doubt, you will immediately begin this Amorous Assault, with all that Vigour, Assi­duity, and Courage, I expect from that Confi­dence I put in your Friendship.

Lothario gave so great an Attention to Anselmo's Reasons, that he gave him no other Interruption, than what we mention'd. But, now finding his Discourse was at an end, full of Amazement at the Extravagance of the Proposal, he thus reply'd. Could I, my dear Anselmo, perswade my self that what you have said were any more than a piece of Raillery, I should not have been so long silent; no, I should have interrupted you at the beginning of your Speech. Sure you know neither your self nor me, Anselmo, or you would never have em­ploy'd me in such an Affair, if you had not thought me as much alter'd from what I was, as you seem to be; for as the Poet has it, usque ad aras; A true Friend ought to desire nothing of his Friend that is offen­sive to Heaven. But should a Man so far exert his Friendship, as to deviate a little from the Severity of Religion in Complaisance to his Friend, no trifling Motive can excuse the Transgression, and only his Honour and Life can make any tolerable Apology. Which therefore of these Anselmo is in danger, to warrant my undertaking so detestable a thing as you desire? Neither, I dare engage: On the contrary, you would make me the Assault­ter of both, in which my own is included; for, to rob you of your Reputation, is to take away your Life, since an Infamous Life is worse than [Page 401] Death; and by making me the guilty Instrument of this, as you would have me, you make me worse than a dead Man by the Murder of my Re­putation. Therefore I desire you would hear with Patience what I have to urge against your extra­vagant Desire, and I shall afterwards hear your Reply without Interrpution. Anselmo having pro­mis'd his Attention, Lothario proceeded in this manner. In my Opinion you are not unlike the Moors, who are incapable of being convinc'd of the Error of their Religion, by Scripture, specu­lative Reasons, or those drawn immediately from the Articles of our Faith; and will yield to no­thing but Demonstrations as evident as those of the Mathematicks, and which can as little be de­ny'd, as when we say, If from two equal Parts we take away two equal Parts, the Parts that remain are also equal. And when they do not understand this Proposition, which they seldom do, we are oblig'd by our Hands, to make it yet more plain and obvious to their Senses; and yet all this la­bour will at last prove ineffectual to the con­vincing them of the Verities of our Religion. The same must be my Method with you, since your strange desire is so very foreign to all man­ner of Reason, that I very much fear I shall spend my Time and Labour in vain, in endeavour­ing to convince you of your own Folly, for I can afford it no other Name. Nay, did I not love you as I do, I should leave you to the Prosecuti­on of your own odd Humour, which certainly tends to your Ruine. But to lay your Folly a lit­tle more open, you bid me Anselmo attempt a Woman of Honour, cautious of her Reputation, and one who is not much inclin'd to Love; for all these good Qualifications you allow her. If therefore you already know your Wife is pos­sess'd [Page 402] of all these Advantages of Prudence, Discre­tion, Honour, and Reservedness, what have you more to enquire after? And if you believe, as I my self do, that she will be impregnable to all my Assaults, what greater and better Names will you give her, than she already deserves? Either you pretend to think better of her, than really you do, or else you desire you know not what your self. But then if you do not believe her as Virtu­ous as you pretend, why would you put it to the Trial, why do you not rather use her as you think she deserves? On the other hand, if she be as good as you profess you believe her, why would you go to tempt Truth and Goodness it self, with­out any reasonable prospect of Advantage? For when the Trial is over, she will be but the same Virtuous Woman she was before. Wherefore 'tis allow'd that it is the effect of Temerity, and want of Reason, to attempt what is likely to produce nothing but Danger and Detriment to the Under­taker, especially when there is no Necessity for it, and when we may easily foresee the Folly of the Undertaking. There are but these Motives to in­cite us to difficult Attempts, Religion, Inte­rest, or both together. The first makes the Saints endeavour to lead Angelick Lives in these frail Bodies, the second makes us expose our selves to the hazards of long Voyages and Travels in pur­suit of Riches. The third Motive is compound­ed of both, and prompts us to act as well for the honour of God as for our own particular Glory and Interests; as for Example, the daring Adven­tures of the Valiant Soldier, who urg'd by his du­ty to God, his Prince, and his Country, fiercely runs into the midst of a dreadful Breach, unterri­fi'd with any Considerations of the Danger that threatens him. These are things done every Day, [Page 403] and let them be never so dangerous, they give Ho­nour, Glory, and Profit to those that attempt them. But by the Project you design to reduce to an Experiment; you will never obtain, either the Glory of Heaven, Profit, or Reputation: For should the Experiment answer your expectation, it will make no Addition either to your Content, Honour, or Riches; but if it disappoint your Hopes, it makes you the most miserable Man a­live. And the imaginary Advantage of no Man's knowing your Disgrace, will soon vanish when you consider, that to know it your self will be enough to supply you perpetually with all the tormenting Thoughts in the World. A Proof of this, is what the famous Poet Ludovico Tansilo at the end of his first Part of² St. Peter's Tears, says in these Words.

So that your boasted Secresy, far from alleviating your Grief, will only serve to increase it; and if your Eyes do not express it by outward Tears, they will flow from your very Heart in Blood. [Page 404] So wept that simple Doctor, who, as our Poet tells us, made that Experiment on the brittle Ves­sel, which the more prudent Reynoldos excus'd him­self from doing. This indeed is but a Poetical Fiction, but yet the Moral which it enforces is worthy being observ'd and imitated. And ac­cordingly I hope you will discover the strange Mistake into which you would run, principally when you have heard what I have farther to say to you.

Suppose, Anselmo, you had a Diamond, as valua­ble in the Judgment of the best Jewellers as such a Stone could be, would you not be satisfy'd with their Opinion without trying its hardness on the Anvil? you must own, that should it be proof against your blows, it would not be one jot the more valuable, than really it was before your foolish Trial; but should it happen to break, as well it might, the Jewel were then intirely lost, as well as the Sense and Reputation of the Owner. This precious Diamond my Friend, is your Camilla, for so she ought to be esteem'd in all Mens Opinions as well as your own; why then would you imprudently put her in danger of fail­ing, since your Trial will add no greater value to her than she has already? But if she should prove frail, reflect with your self on the unhap­piness of your Condition, and how justly you might complain of your being the Cause of both her Ruine and your own. Consider, that as a mo­dest and honest Woman is the most valuable Jewel in the World, so does all Womens Virtue and Honour consist in the Opinion and Reputation they maintain with other People. And since that of your Wife is perfect, both in your own and all other Mens Opinion, why will you go, to no purpose, to call the reality of it in Question? You [Page 405] must remember, my Friend, that the Nature of Women is at best but weak and imperfect; and for that Reason we should be so far from casting Rubs in its way, that we ought with all imagi­nable Care to remove every Appearance that might hinder its Course to that Perfection it wants, which is Virtue.

If we believe the Naturalists, the Ermine is a very white little Creature; when the Hunters have found its Haunts, they surround it almost with Dirt and Mire, towards which the Ermine being forc'd to fly, rather than sully its native White with Dirt, it suffers it self to be taken, preferring its Colour to its Liberty and Life. The Virtuous Woman is our Ermine, whose Chastity is whiter than Snow; but to preserve its Colour un­sully'd, you must observe just a contrary Method: The Addresses and Services of an importunate Lover, are the Mire into which you should never drive a Woman, for 'tis ten to one she will not be able to free her self and avoid it, being but too apt to stumble into it; and therefore that should be always remov'd, and only the Candour and Beauty of Virtue, and the Charms of a good Fame and Reputation plac'd before her. A good Woman is also not unlike a Mirrour of Crystal, which will infallibly be dimm'd and stain'd by breathing too much upon it: She must rather be us'd like the Reliques of Saints, ador'd but not touch'd; or like a Garden of curious tender Flowers, that may at a distance gratify the Eye, but are not permitted by the Master to be tramp­led on or touch'd by every Beholder. I shall add but a few Verses out of a late new Play, very fit for our present purpose, where a prudent old Man advis'd his Neighbour that had a Daughter, to lock her up close; and gives these Reasons for it, be­sides several others.

All I have hitherto urg'd relates only to you, I may now at last be allowed to consider what regards my self; and if I am tedious I hope you will pardon me; for, to draw you out of the Labyrinth into which you have run your self, I am forc'd on that Prolixity. You call me Friend, yet, what is absoluetly inconsistent with Friend­ship, you would rob me of my Honour; Nay, you stop not here, but would oblige me to de­stroy yours. First, that you would rob me of mine is evident; for what will Camilla think when I make a Declaration of Love to her, but that I am a perfidious Villain, that make no scru­ple of violating the most sacred Laws of Friend­ship, and who sacrifice the Honour and Reputa­tion of my Friend to a Criminal Passion? Second­ly, that I destroy yours is as evident; for when she sees me take such a Liberty with her, she will imagine that I have discover'd some Weak­ness in her that has given me assurance to make her so guilty a Discovery, by which she esteem­ing her self injur'd in her Honour, you being the principal part of her, must of necessity be af­fected with the Affronts she receives. For this is the Reason why the Husband, though never so de­serving, cautious, and careful, suffers the Infamy of a scandalous Name if his Wife goes astray; [Page 407] whereas in Reason he ought rather to be an Ob­ject of Compassion than Contempt, seeing the Misfortune proceeds from the Vice and Folly of his Wife, not his own Defects. But since the Reason and Justice of the Man's Suffering for his Wife's Transgression, may be serviceable to you, I'll give you the best account of it I can; and pray do not think me tedious, since this is meant for your good. When Woman was given to Man, and Marriage first Ordain'd in Paradise, Man and Wife were made and pronounc'd one Flesh; the Husband therefore being of a piece with the Wife, whatever affects her affects him, as a part of her; tho', as I have said, he has been no Occasion of it: For as the whole Body is affected by the pain of any part, as the Head will share the pain of the Foot, tho' it never caus'd that Pain, so is the Husband touch'd with his Wife's Infamy, because she is a part of him. And since all Worldly Hon­ours and Dishonours are deriv'd from Flesh and Blood, and the scandalous Baseness of an unfaith­ful Wife proceeds from the same Principle, it necessarily follows that the Husband, tho' no Party in the Offence, and intirely ignorant, and innocent of it, must have his share of the Infamy. Let what I have said, my dear Anselmo, make you sensible of the Danger into which you wou'd run, by endeavouring thus to disturb the happy Tran­quility and Repose that your Wife at present en­joys; and for how vain a Curiosity, and extrava­gant a Caprice, you would rouse, and awake those peccant Humours which are now lull'd asleep by the Power of an unattempted Chastity. Reflect farther, how small a Return you can expect from so hazardous a Voyage, and such valuable Com­modities as you venture; for the Treasure you will lose is so great, and ought to be so dear, that [Page 408] all Words are too inexpressive to shew how much you ought to esteem it. But if all I have said be too weak to destroy your foolish Resolve, imploy some other Instrument of your Disgrace and Ruin; for, tho' I should lose your Friendship, a Loss which I must esteem the greatest in the World, I will have no hand in an Affair so prejudicial to your Honour.

Lothario said no more, and Anselmo discovering a desponding Melancholy in his Face, remain'd a great while silent and confounded. At last, I have, said he, my Friend, listen'd to your Dis­course, as you might observe, with all the At­tention in Nature, and every part of what you have said convinces me of the greatness of your Wisdom and Friendship; and I must own, that, if I suffer my Desires to prevail over your Reasons, I shun the Good and pursue the Evil. But yet, my Friend, you ought, on the other side, to re­flect, that my Distemper is not much unlike that of those Women who sometimes long for Coals, Lime, nay, some things that are loathsome to the very sight; and therefore some little Arts should be us'd to endeavour my Cure, which might easily be affected if you would but consent to sollicit Camilla, though it were but weakly and remisly; for I am sure she will not be so frail to surrender at the first Assault, which yet will be sufficient to give me the satisfaction I desire: And in this you will fulfil the Duty of our Friendship, in restoring me to Life, and securing my Honour by your powerful and perswasive Reasons. And you are indeed bound as my Friend to do thus much to secure me from betraying my. Defects and Follies to a Stranger, which would certainly shock their Reputation, which you have taken so much pains to preserve; since I am so bent on this Experi­ment, [Page 409] that if you refuse me, I shall certainly apply my self elsewhere: And though a while your Re­putation may suffer in Camilla's Opinion, yet when she has once prov'd Triumphant, you may cure that Wound, and recover her good Opinion by a sincere discovery of your Design. Wherefore I conjure you to comply with my Importunity, in spight of all the Obstacles that may present them­selves to you, since what I desire is so little, and the Pleasure I shall derive from it so great: For as I have promis'd, your very first Attempt shall satisfy me as much as if you had gone through the whole Experiment.

Lothario plainly saw that Anselmo's Resolution was too much fix'd for any thing he could say to alter it, and finding that he threaten'd to betray his Folly to a Stranger if he persisted in a Refusal, to avoid greater inconveniencies, he resolv'd to seem to comply with his Desires; privately designing to satisfie Anselmo's Caprice, without giving Camilla any trouble, and therefore he desir'd him to break the Matter to no body else, since he would himself undertake it, and begin as soon as he pleas'd. Anselmo embrac'd him with all the Love and Tenderness imaginable, and was as pro­digal of his Thanks as if the very Promise had been the greatest Obligation that could be laid on him. They immediately agreed on the next Day for the Trial, at which time Anselmo should give him the Opportunity of being alone with her, and Gold and Jewels to present her with. He advis'd him to omit no Point of Gallantry, as Serenades, and Songs, and Verses in her Praise; offering to make 'em himself, if Lothario would not be at the trouble. But Lothario promis'd him to do all himself, tho' his design was far different from Anselmo's.

[Page 410]Matters being thus adjusted, they return'd to Anselmo's House, where they found the Beautiful Camilla, sad with Concern for the absence of her Husband beyond his usual bout. Lothario left him there, and retir'd home, as pensive how to come off handsomely in this Ridiculous Affair, as he had left Anselmo pleas'd and contented with his undertaking it. But that Night, he contriv'd a way of imposing on Anselmo to his Satisfaction, without offending Camilla. So next day he goes to Anselmo's, and was receiv'd by Camilla with a Civility and Respect answerable to the uncommon Friendship she knew was between him and her Husband. Dinner being over, Anselmo desir'd his Friend to keep his Lady Company till his return from an extraordinary Affair, that would require his Absence about an hour and half. Camilla de­sir'd him not to go; Lothario offer'd to go with him; but he pleaded peculiar Business, intreated his Friend to stay, and enjoyn'd his Wife not to leave him alone till his return; and so he left them together, without any one to observe their Actions, all the Servants being retir'd to Dinner.

Thus Lothario found himself enter'd the Lists, his Adversary before him, terribly arm'd with a thousand piercing Beauties, sufficient to overcome all the Men she should Encounter, which gave him cause enough to fear his own Fate. The first thing he did in this first Onset, was to lean his Head carelesly on his Hand, and beg her leave to take a Nap in his Chair till his Friend came back: Camilla told him she thought he might rest with more ease on the Couch in the next Room; he de­clar'd himself satisfi'd with the Place where he was, and so slept till his Friend came back. An­selmo finding his Wife in her Chamber, and Lothario asleep at his return, concluded that he had given [Page 411] them time enough both for Discourse, and Re­pose; and therefore waited with a great deal of impatience for his Friend's awaking, that they might retire and he might acquaint him with his success. Lothario at last awak'd, and going out with his Friend, he answer'd his Enquiry to this purpose, That he did not think it convenient to proceed farther at that time than some general Praise of her Wit and Beauty, which would best prepare his way for what he might do hereafter; and dispose her to give a more easie and willing Ear to what he should say to her: As the Devil, by laying a pleasing and apparent Good at first be­fore us, insinuates himself into our Inclinations; so that he generally gains his Point before we dis­cover the Cloven-Foot, if his Disguise pass on us in the beignning. Anselmo was extreamly satisfi'd with what Lothario said, and promis'd him every day as good an Opportunity; and tho' he could not go every Day abroad, yet he would manage his Conduct so well, that Camilla should have no cause of Suspicion. He took care to do as he said. But Lothario wilfully lost the frequent Opportuni­ties he gave him; however, he sooth'd him still with Assurances, that his Lady was inflexible, her Virtue not to be surmounted, and that she had threaten'd to discover his Attempts to her Hus­band, if he ever presum'd to be so Insolent again; so far was she from giving him the least Hope or Encouragement. Thus far 'tis well, said Anselmo, but yet Camilla has resisted nothing but Words, we must now see what Proof she is against more sub­stantial Temptations. To morrow I will furnish you with two thousand Crowns in Gold to present her with, and as a farther Bait you shall have as much more in Jewels. For Women, especially if they are handsom, naturally love to go gaily and [Page 412] richly drest, be they never so chaste and virtuous; and if she have power to overcome this Temp­tation, I'll give you no farther Trouble. Since I have begun this Adventure, reply'd Lothario, I will make an end of it; tho' I am sure her Re­pulses will tire out my Patience, and her Virtue overcome any Temptation, and baffle my Endea­vours.

The next Day Anselmo deliver'd him the four thousand Crowns, and with them as many per­plexing Thoughts, not knowing how to supply his Invention with some new Story to amuse his Friend. However, at last he resolv'd to return the Money, with Assurance that Camilla was un­mov'd with Presents, as with Praise, and as un­touch'd with Promises, as with Vows and sighs of Love; and therefore all farther Attempts wou'd be but a fruitless Labour. This was his Intention; but Fortune that medl'd too much in these Affairs disappointed his Designs. For Anselmo having left him alone with his Wife one day as he us'd to do; privately convey'd himself into the Closet, and thro' the Chinks of the Door set himself to observe what they did; he found that for one half hour Lothario said not one word to Camilla, from whence he conluded that all the Addresses, Importunities, and Repulses with which he had amus'd him, were pure Fictions. But, that he might be fully satisfi'd in the truth of his Surmise, coming from his Covert he took his Friend aside, and enquir'd of him what Camilla had then said to him, and how he now found her enclin'd? Lothario reply'd, that he would make no farther trial of her, since her an­swer had now been so severe and awful, that he durst not for the future venture upon a Discourse so evidently her Aversion.

[Page 413]Ah! Lothario! Lothario! cry'd Anselmo, is it thus that you keep your Promises? Is this what I shou'd expect from your Friendship? I observ'd you through that door, and found that you said not a Word to Camilla; and from thence I am very well satisfied, that you have only impos'd on me all the Answers and Relations you have made me. Why did you hinder me from employing some other, if you never intended to satisfie my Desire? An­selmo said no more, but this was enough to con­found Lothario, and cover him with Shame for be­ing found in a Lie. Therefore, to appease his Friend, he swore to him from that time forward to set in good Earnest about the Matter, and that so effectually, that he himself if he wou'd again give himself the trouble of observing him, should find proof enough of his Sincerity. Anselmo be­liev'd him; and to give him the better opportunity, he engag'd a Friend of his to send for him with a great deal of Importunity to come to his House at a Village near the City, where he meant to spend eight Days, to take away all Apprehension and Fear from both his Friend and his Wife.

Was ever Man so unhappy as Anselmo, who in­dustriously contriv'd the Plot of his own Ruine and Dishonour! He had a very good Wife, and possess'd her in Quiet, without any other Man's mingling in his Pleasures; her Thoughts were bounded with her own House, and her Husband, the only Earthly Good she hop'd or thought on, and her only Pleasure, and Desire; his Will the Rule of her's and measure of her Conduct. When he possess'd Love, Honour, Beauty, and Discreti­on, without Pain or Toil, what shou'd provoke him to seek with so much danger, and hazard of what he had already, that which was not to be found in Nature! He that aims at things im­possible, [Page 414] ought justly to lose those Advantages which are within the Bounds of Possibility, as the Poet sings.

The next Day Anselmo went out of Town; ha­ving first inform'd Camilla, that his Friend Lothario would look after his Affairs, and keep her Com­pany in his Absence, and desir'd her to make as much of him as of himself. His Lady like a discreet Women, begg'd him to consider how im­proper a thing it was for any other to take his Place in his Absence; and told him, that if he doubted her Ability in managing her House, he should try her but this time, and she question'd not but he would find she had Capacity to acquit her self to his satisfaction in greater Matters. Anselmo reply'd that it was her Duty not to dis­pute but obey his Command: To which she re­turn'd, that she would comply, tho' much against her Will. In short, her Husband left the Town: Lothario the next Day was receiv'd at her House with all the respect that could be paid a Friend so dear to her Husband; but yet with so much [Page 415] Caution, that she never permitted her self to be left alone with him, but kept perpetually some of her Maids in the Room, and chiefly Leonela, for whom she had a particular Love, as having been bred in her Father's House with her from her In­fancy.

Lothario said nothing to her the three first Days, notwithstanding he might have found an opportu­nity when the Servants were gone to Dinner; for tho' the prudent Camilla had order'd Leonela to dine before her, that she might have no occasion to go out of the Room; yet she who had other Affairs to employ her thoughts more agreeably to her In­clinations (to gratify which, that was usually the only convenient time she could find) was not so very punctually obedient to her Lady's Commands, but that she sometimes left them together. Lothario did not yet make use of these advantages, as I have said, being aw'd by the Virtue and Modesty of Camilla. But this silence which she thus im­pos'd on Lothario, had at last a quite contrary Ef­fect. For, tho' he said nothing, his Thoughts were active, his Eyes were employed to see and survey the outward Charms of a Form so perfect, that 'twas enough to fire the most cold, and soften the most obdurate Heart. In these Intervals of silence, he consider'd how much she deserv'd to be belov'd, and these Considerations by little and little undermin'd and assaulted the Faith which he ow'd to his Friend. A thousand times he resolv'd to leave the City and retire where Anselmo should never see him, and where he shou'd never more behold the dangerous Face of Camilla; but the ex­tream Pleasure he found in seeing her, soon de­stroy'd so feeble a Resolve. When he was alone, he wou'd accuse his want of Friendship and Re­ligion, and run into frequent Comparisons betwixt [Page 416] himself and Anselmo, which generally concluded that Anselmo's Folly and Madness was greater than hit Infidelity; and that, wou'd Heaven as easily excuse his Intentions, as Man, he had no cause to fear any Punishment for the Crime he was going to commit. In fine, Camilla's Beauty, and the op­portunity given him by the Husband himself, wholly vanquish'd his Faith and Friendship. And now having an Eye only to the means of obtaining that Pleasure, to which he was prompted with so much Violence; after he had spent the three first Days of Anselmo's Absence in a conflict betwixt Love and Virtue, he attempted by all means pos­sible to prevail with Camilla; and discover'd so much Passion in his Words and Actions, that Camilla sur­priz'd with the unexpected Assault, flung from him out of the Room and retir'd with haste to her Cham­ber. Hope is always born with Love, nor did this Repulse in the least discourage Lothario from farther Attempts on Camilla, who by this appear'd more charming, and more worthy his Pursuit. She on the other hand, knew not what to do upon the discovery of that in Lothario, which she never cou'd have imagin'd. The Result of her Reflections was this, that since she cou'd not give him any oppor­tunity of speaking to her again, without the hazard of her Reputation and Honour, she wou'd send a Letter to her Husband to sollicit his Return to his House. The Letter she sent by a Messenger that very Night, and it was to this purpose.

CHAP. VII. In which the History of the Curious Imperti­nent is pursu'd.

AS 'tis very improper to leave an Army without a General, and a Garrison without a Governour, so to me it seems much more imprudent to leave a young marry'd Woman without her Husband, especially when there are no Affairs of Consequence to plead for his Ab­sence. I find my self so all in your's, and so impatient, and unable to endure it any longer, that if you come not home very quickly I shall be oblig'd to return to my Father's, tho' I leave your House without any one to look after it: For the Person to whom you have entrusted the Care of your Family, has I believe more Regard to his own Pleasure than your Concerns. You are wise and pru­dent, and therefore I shall say no more, nor is it conveni­ent I shou'd.

Anselmo was not a little satisfy'd at the Receipt of this Letter, which assur'd him that Lothario had begun the Attempt, which she had repell'd ac­cording to his Hopes; and therefore he sent her Word not to leave his House, assuring her it shou'd not be long before he return'd. Camilla was sur­priz'd with his Answer, and more perplex'd than before, being equally affraid of going to her Fa­ther and of staying at home; in the First she dis­obey'd her Husband, in the Latter ran the Risque of her Honour. The worst Resolution prevail'd, which was to stay at her own House, and not a­void [Page 418] Lothario's Company, least it shou'd give some Cause of Suspicion to her Servants. And now she repented her writing to Anselmo, least he shou'd suspect that Lothario had observ'd some Indiscreti­on in her, that made him lose the Respect due to her, and gave him Assurance to offer at the cor­rupting her Honesty: But confiding in Hea­ven and her own Innocence, which she thought Proof against all Lothario's Attempts, she resolv'd to make no Answer to whatever he shou'd say to her, and never more to trouble her Husband with Complaints, for Fear of engaging him in Disputes and Quarrels with his Friend. For that Reason she consider'd how she might best excuse him to Anselmo, when he shou'd examine the Cause of her writing to him in that Manner. With a Resolu­tion so innocent and dangerous, the next Day she gave Ear to all that Lothario said; and he gave the Assault with such Force and Vigour, that Ca­milla's Constancy cou'd not stand the Shock un­mov'd, and her Virtue cou'd do no more than guard her Eyes from betraying that tender Com­passion, of which his Vows and Entreaties, and all his Sighs and Tears had made her Heart sensible. Lothario discover'd this with an infinite Satisfacti­on, and no less Addition to his Flame; and found that he ought to make use of this Oppor­tunity of Anselmo's Absence, with all his Force and Importunity to win so valuable a Fortress. He began with the powerful Battery of the Praise of her Beauty, which being directly pointed on the weakest Part of Woman, her Vanity, with the greatest Ease and Facility in the World makes a Breach as great as a Lover wou'd desire. Lothario was not unskilful or remiss in the Attack, but follow'd his Fire so close, that let Camilla's Inte­grity be built on never so obdurate a Rock, it must [Page 419] at last have fall'n. He wept, pray'd, flatter'd, pro­mis'd, swore, vow'd, and shew'd so much Passion and Truth in what he said, that bearing down the Care of her Honour, he at last triumph'd over what he scarce durst hope, tho' what he most of all desir'd; for she at last surrender'd, even Ca­milla surrender'd. Nor ought we to wonder if she yielded, since even Lothario's Friendship and Virtue were not able to withstand the terrible Assault; an evident Proof that Love is a Power too strong to be overcome by any thing but fly­ing, and that no mortal Creature ought to be so presumptuous as to stand the Encounter, since there is Need of something more than human, and indeed a heavenly Force, to confront and van­quish that human Passion. Leonela was the only Confident of this Amour, which these new Lo­vers and faithless Friends could not by any Means conceal from her Knowledge. Lothario would not discover to Camilla, that her Husband for her Tri­al had designedly given him this Opportunity, to which he ow'd so extreme a Happiness; because she shou'd not think he wanted Love to sollicit her himself with Importunity, or that she was gain'd on too easy Terms.

Anselmo came home in a few Days, but discover'd not what he had lost, tho' it was what he most valu'd and esteem'd: From thence he went to Lothario, and embracing him, begg'd of him to let him know his Fate. All I can tell you, my Friend, answer'd Lothario, is, that you may boast your self the Husband of the best Wife in the World, the Ornament of her Sex, and the Pattern which all virtuous Women ought to fol­low. Words, Offers, Presents, all is ineffectual; the Tears I pretended to shed, mov'd only her Laughter. Camilla is not only Mistress of the [Page 420] greatest Beauty, but of Modesty, Discretion, Sweet­ness of Temper, and every other Virtue and Per­fection that add to the Charms of a Woman of Honour. Therefore, my Friend, here take back your Money, I have had no Occasion to lay it out, for Camilla's Integrity cannot be corrupted by such base and mercenary things as Gifts and Pro­mises. And now Anselmo be at last content with the Trial you have already made, and having so luckily got over the dangerous Quick-sands of Doubts and Suspicions that are to be met with in the Ocean of Matrimony, do not venture out a­gain with another Pilot that Vessel whose Strength you have sufficiently experienc'd; but believe your self as you are, securely anchor'd in a safe Har­bour, at Pleasure and Ease, till Death, from whose Force no Title, Power, nor Dignity can secure us, does come and cut the Cable. Anselmo was extremely satisfy'd with Lothario's Discourse, and believ'd it as firmly as if it had been an Oracle; yet desir'd him to continue his Pursuit, if it were but to pass away the Time: He did not require he should press Camilla with those Importunities he had us'd, but only make some Verses in her Praise under the Name of Cloris, and he would make Camilla believe he celebrated a Lady he lov'd under that Name, to secure her Honour and Reputation from the Censure which a more open Declaration would incur: He added, that if Lothario would not be at the Expence of so much Trouble and Time as to compose them himself, he would do it for him with a great deal of Plea­sure. Lothario told him there was no Need of that, since he himself was sometimes poetically given; do you but tell Camilla of my Love according to your own Design, and I'll make the Verses as well as I can, tho' not so well as the Excellency of the [Page 421] Subject requires. The Curious Impertinent and his treacherous Friend having thus agreed the Matter, Anselmo went home, and then ask'd Camilla on what Occasion she sent him the Letter? Camilla, who wonder'd that this Question had not been ask'd her before, reply'd, That the Motive that prevail'd with her to write in that Manner to him, was a Jealousy she had entertain'd that Lothario in his Absence look'd on her with more criminal and desiring Eyes than he us'd to do when he was at home; but that since she had Reason to believe that Suspicion but weakly grounded, seeing he discover'd rather an Aversion than Love, as a­voiding all Occasions of being alone with her. Anselmo told her she had nothing to apprehend from Lothario on that Account, since he knew his Affections engag'd on one of the noblest young Ladies of the City, whose Praise he writ under the Name of Cloris; but were he not thus en­gag'd, there was no Reason to suspect Lothario's Virtue and Friendship. Camilla at this Discourse, without Doubt, would have been very jealous of Lothario, had he not told her his Design of abusing her Husband with the Pretence of another Love, that he might with the greater Liberty and Se­curity express her Praise and his Passion. The next Day at Dinner Anselmo desir'd him to read some of the Verses he had made on his beloved Cloris, telling him he might say any thing of her before Camilla, since she did not know who the Lady was. Did Camilla know her, reply'd Lothario, that should not make me pass over in Si­lence my Part of that Praise which was her Due; or if a Lover complains of his Mistress's Cruelty while he is praising her Perfections, she can never suffer in her Reputation: Therefore without any [Page 422] Fear I shall repeat a Sonnet which I made Yester­day on the Ingratitude of Cloris.

Camilla was mightily pleas'd with the Sonnet, but Anselmo transported; he was lavish of his Commendation, and added that the Lady must be barbarously cruel that made no Return to so much Truth and so violent a Passion. What, must we then believe all that a Poet in Love tells us for Truth? said Camilla. Madam, reply'd Lothario, tho' the Poet may exceed, yet the Lover corrects his Fondness for Fiction, and makes him speak Truth. Anselmo, to advance Lothario's Credit with Camilla, confirm'd whatever he said; but she not minding her Husband's Confirmations, was suffi­ciently perswaded by her Passion for Lothario to an implicit Faith in all he said; and therefore [Page 423] pleas'd with this Composition, and more satisfy'd in the Knowledge she had that all was address'd to her self as the true Cloris, she desir'd him to repeat some other Verses he had made on that Subject if he could remember any. I remember some, re­ply'd Lothario, but Madam, in my Opinion, they are not so tolerable as the former; but you shall be Judge your self.

Anselmo was not less profuse in his Praise of this Sonnet than he had been of the other, and so ad­ded [Page 424] new Fuel to that Fire that was to consume his Reputation. He contributed to his own A­buse in commending his false Friend's Attempts on his Honour, as the most important Service he could do it; and this made him believe that eve­ry Step Camilla made down to Contempt and Dis­grace, was a Degree she mounted toward that Per­fection of Virtue which he desir'd she should at­tain.

Some Time after, Camilla being alone with her Maid, I am asham'd, said she, my Leonela, that I gave Lothario so easy a Conquest over me, and did not know my own Worth enough to make him undergo some greater Fatigues before I made so entire a Surrender. I am afraid he will think my hasty Consent the Effect of the Loosness of my Temper, and not at all consider that the Force and Violence he us'd depriv'd me of the Power of resisting. Ah! Madam, return'd Leonela, let not that disquiet you; for the speedy bestowing a Benefit of an intrinsick Value, and which you design to bestow at last, can never lessen the Fa­vour; for according to the old Proverb, He that gives quickly gives twice. To answer your Proverb with another, reply'd Camilla, That which costs little is less valu'd. But this has nothing to do with you, answer'd Leonela, since 'tis said of Love that it sometimes goes, sometimes flies; runs with one, walks gravely with another; turns a third into Ice, and sets a fourth in a Flame: It wounds one, another it kills; like Lightning it begins and ends in the same Moment: It makes that Fort yield at Night which it besieg'd but in the Morn­ing, for there is no Force able to resist it. Since this is evident, what Cause have you to be surpriz­ed at your own Frailty? And why should you apprehend any thing from Lothario, who has felt [Page 425] the same irresistible Power, and yielded to it as soon? For Love, to gain a Conquest, took the short Opportunity of my Lord's Absence, which being so short and uncertain, Love, that had be­fore determin'd this shou'd be done, added Force and Vigour to the Lover, not to leave any thing to Time and Chance, which might by Anselmo's Return cut off all Opportunities of accomplishing so agreeable a Work. The best and most offici­ous Servant of Love's Retinue, is Occasion or Opportunity: This it is that Love improves in all its Progress, but most in the Beginning and first Rise of an Amour. I trust not in what I have said to the Uncertainty of Report, but to Expe­rience, which affords the most certain and most valuable Knowledge, as I will inform you, Ma­dam, some Day or other; for I am like you, made of frail Flesh and Blood, fir'd by Youth and youthful Desires. But, Madam, you did not sur­render to Lothario till you had sufficient Proof of his Love from his Eyes, his Vows, his Promises, and Gifts; till you had seen the Merit of his Per­son and the Beauty of his Mind; all which con­vinc'd you how much he deserv'd to be lov'd. Then trouble your self no more, Madam, with these Fears and Jealousies, but thank your Stars that, since you were doom'd a Victim to Love, you fell by the Force of such Valour and Merit that cannot be doubted. You yielded to one who has not only the four S's, which are requir'd in every good Lover, but even the whole Alphabet; as for Example, he is in my Opinion Agreeable, Bountiful, Constant, Dutiful, Easy, Faithful, Gallant, Honourable, Ingenious, Kind, Loyal, Mild, Noble, Offi­cious, Prudent, Quiet, Rich, Secret, True, Valiant, Wise, the X indeed is too harsh a Letter to agree with him, he is Young, and Zealous for your Honour and [Page 426] Service. Camilla laugh'd at her Woman's Alphabet, and thought her (as indeed she was) more learn'd in the practical Part of Love than she had confess'd, She then inform'd her Mistress of an Affair that had been betwixt her and a young Man of the Town. Camilla was not a little concern'd at what she said, being apprehensive that her Honour might suffer by her Woman's Indiscretion, and therefore ask'd her if the Amour had pass'd any farther than Words? Leonela, without any Fear or Shame, own'd her guilty Correspondence with all the Freedom in the World; for the Mistress's Guilt gives the Servant Impudence, and generally they imitate their Ladies Frailties without any Fear of the publick Censure.

Camilla finding her Error past Remedy, could only beg Leonela to disclose nothing of her Affair to her Lover, and manage her Amour with Se­cresy and Discretion, for fear Lothario or Anselmo should hear of it. Leonela promis'd to obey her. but she did it in such a Manner, that Camilla was perpetually in fear of the Loss of her Reputation by her Folly; for she grew so confident on her Knowledge of her Lady's Transgression, that she admitted her Gallant into the House, not caring if her Lady knew it, being certain that she durst not make any Discovery to her Master: For when once a Mistress has suffer'd her Virtue to be van­quish'd, and admits of any criminal Correspon­dence, it subjects her to her own Servants, and makes her subservient to their Rogueries, which she is slavishly bound to conceal. Thus it was with Camilla, who was forc'd to wink at the visible Rendezvous which Leonela had with her Lover in a certain Chamber of the House which she thought proper for the Occasion; nor was that all, she [Page 427] was constrain'd to give her the opportunity of hiding him, by blinding her Husband.

But all this Caution did not secure him from being seen by Lothario, one Morning as he was getting out of the House by break of Day. His Surprize had made him think it a Spirit, had not his Haste away, and his muffling himself up in his Cloak, that he might not be known, convinc'd him of his Error, and thrown him into a new Jealousie, that had certainly undone them all, had not Camilla's Wit and Address prevented it. For Lothario concluded that Camilla, that had made no very obstinate Resistance to him, had as easily sur­render'd to some other, and he fancy'd that the Person he saw come from her House was the new-favour'd Lover; never remembring that there was any such Person as Leonela in the House. For when once a Woman parts with her Virtue, she loses the Esteem even of the Man whose Vows and Tears won her to abandon it; and he believes she will with as little, if not less Difficulty, yield to another; he perverts the least Suspicions into Reality, and takes the lightest Appearance for the most evident Matter of Fact.

Thus Lothario distracted by the most violent Jealousie in the World, without allowing him­self time to consider, gave way to the Transports of his Rage and desire of Revenge on Camilla, who had not injur'd him; he goes immediately to Anselmo, and having found him abed, I have, my Friend, said he to him, these several Days under­gone a most severe Conflict within my Mind, and us'd all the Force and Violence I was capable of to conceal an Affair from you, which I can no longer forbear discovering, without an apparent Wrong to Justice, and my Friendship. Know then that Camilla is now ready to do whatsoever I [Page 428] shall desire of her, and the Reason that most pre­vail'd with me to delay this Discovery, was, that I would be satisfy'd whether she were in earnest, or only pretended this Compliance to try me; but had she been so Virtuous as you and I believ'd her, she would by this time have inform'd you of that Importunity which by your Desire I us'd; but finding that she is silent, and takes no notice of that to you, I have reason to believe that she is but too sincere in those guilty Promises she has made me, of meeting me to my Satisfaction in the Wardrobe the next time your Absence from the Town should furnish her with an Opportunity. (This was true indeed, for that was the Place of their common Rendezvous) Yet I would not have you, continu'd he, take a rash and inconsiderate Revenge, since 'tis possible before the time of Assignation her Virtue may Rally, and she repent her Folly. Therefore, as you have hitherto taken my Advice, be rul'd by me now, that you may not be impos'd on, but have a sufficient Conviction before you put your Resolves into Execution; pre­tend two or three Days Absence, and then privately convey your self behind the Hangings in the Wardrobe, as you easily may, whence you may without difficulty be an Eye Witness with me of Camilla's Conduct; and if it be as Criminal as we may justly fear, then you may with secrecy and speed punish her, as the Injury deserves.

Anselmo was extremely surpriz'd at so unexpected a Misfortune, to find himself deceiv'd in those imaginary Tiumphs he pleas'd himself with in Camilla's suppos'd Victory over all Lothario's As­saults. A great while he was in a silent suspence, with his Eyes dejected, without Force, and without Spirit; but turning at last to his Friend, you have done all, said he, Lothario, that I could [Page 429] expect from so perfect a Friendship, I will there­fore be entirely guided by your Advice; do there­fore what you please, but use all the secresy a Thing of this Nature requires. Lothario, assuring him of that, left him; but full of Repentance for the Rashness he had been guilty of in telling him so much as he had, since he might have taken a sufficient Revenge by a less cruel, and dishonour­able way. He curs'd his want of Sense, and the weakness of his Resolution, but could not find out any way to produce a less fatal event of his Trea­chery, than he could justly expect from the Ex­periment. But at last he concluded to inform Camilla of all he had done; which his Freedom of Access gave him opportunity to do that very day, when he found her alone; and she began thus to him. I am so oppress'd my Lothario, with a Misfortune which I lie under, that it will certainly for ever destroy my Quiet and Happiness, if there be not some speedy Remedy found for it: Leonela is grown so presumptuous, on her knowledge of my Affairs, that she admits her Lover all Night to her Chamber, and so exposes my Reputation to the Censure of any that shall see him go out at un­seasonable Hours from my House; and the greatest, and most remediless part of my grief is, that I dare not correct or chide her for her Imprudence and Impudence; for being conscious of our Corres­pondence, she obliges me to conceal her Failings, which I am extremely apprehensive will in the end be very fatal to my Happiness. Lothario was at last jealous that Camilla design'd cunningly thus to impose her own Privado on him for Leonela's; but being convinc'd by her Tears, and the ap­parent Concern in her Face, he began to believe her, and at the same time to be infinitely confound­ed and griev'd for what he had done. Yet he com­forted [Page 430] Camilla, assuring her he would take ef­fectual Care for the future, that Leonela's Impu­dence should do her no Prejudice, and therefore begg'd her not to torment her self any more about it. Then he told all the unhappy Effect of his Jealous Rage, and that her Husband had agreed behind the Arras to be witness of her Weakness. He ask'd her Pardon for the Folly, and her Coun­sel how to redress and prevent the ill Effect of it, and bring them out of those Difficulties into which his Madness had plung'd them.

Camilla express'd her Resentment; and her Fears, in accusing his Treachey, Baseness, and want of Consideration; yet her Anger and Fears being appeas'd, and a Woman's wit being always more pregnant in Difficulties than a Man's, she imme­diately thought of a way to deliver them from Dangers that bore so dismal and helpless a Face. She therefore bid him engage Anselmo to be there the next Day, assuring him she did not question but by that means to get a more frequent, and secure Opportunity of enjoying one another than they hitherto ever had. She would not make him privy to her whole Design, but bid him be sure to come after her Husband was hid, as soon as Leonela shou'd call him, and that he should answer as directly to whatsoever she should ask him, as if Anselmo were not within hearing. Lothario spar'd no Importunity to get from her her whole De­sign, that he might Act his Part with the great­er Assurance, and the better contribute to the Imposing on her Husband. All you have to do, reply'd Camilla, is to answer me directly what I shall demand; nor would she discover any more, for fear he should not acquiesce in her Opinion, which she was so well satisfy'd in, but raise Dif­ficulties, and by Consequence Obstacles, that might [Page 431] hinder her Design from having the desir'd Event, or run her upon some less successful Project. Lothario comply'd, and Anselmo in appearance left the Town to retire to his Friend in the Country, but secretly return'd to hide himself in the Ward­robe, which he did with the greater Ease, be­cause Camilla and Leonela wilfully gave him op­portunity. We may easily imagine the Grief with which Anselmo hid himself, since it was to be a Spectator of his own Dishonour, and the loss of all that Happiness he possess'd in the Embraces of his beautiful and belov'd Camilla. On the other hand, she being now certain that Anselmo was hid, enter'd the Wardrobe with Leonela, and fetching a deep and piteous Sight, thus address'd her self to her: Ah! my Leonela! would it not be much bet­ter that thou pierce this infamous Bosom with Anselmo's Dagger, before I Execute what I design, which I have kept from thee that thou might'st not endeavour to disappoint me? Yet not so; for, where is the Justice that I should suffer for another's Offence? No, I will first know of Lothario what Action of mine has given him assurance to make me a discovery of a Passion so injurious to his Friend, and my Honour. Go to the Window Leonela, and call the wicked Man to me, who doubtless is waiting in the Street the Signal for his Admission to accomplish his Villanous Design; yet first my Resolution shall be performed, which tho' it be cruel, is what my Honour strictly de­mands of me. Alas! my dear Lady, cry'd the cunning Leonela, alass! What do you intend to do with that Dagger? Is your fatal Design against your self or Lothario? Alass! you can Attack neither without the Ruin of your Fame and Re­putation. You had better give no Opportunity to that bad Man by admitting him while we are [Page 432] thus alone in the House. Consider, Madam, we are but two weak, and helpless Women, he a strong and resolute Man, whose Force is redoubl'd by the Passion and Desire that possess him; so that before you may be able to accomplish what you design, he may commit a Crime that will be more injurious to you than the loss of your Life. We have reason to curse my Master Anselmo, who gives such frequent Opportunites to Impudence and Dishonesty to pollute our House. But, Madam, suppose you should kill him, as I believe you de­sign, what shall we do with his dead Body? What! said Camilla, why we would leave him in this place to be bury'd by Anselmo; for it must be a grateful Trouble to him to bury with his own Hand his own Infamy and Dishonour. Call him therefore quickly, for methinks every Moment my Revenge is deferr'd, I Injure that Loyalty I owe to my Husband.

Anselmo gave great attention to all that was said, and every Word of Camilla's made a strange alte­ration in his Sentiments, so that he could scarce forbear coming out to prevent his Friend's Death, when he heard her desperate Resolution against his Life; but his desire of seeing the end of so brave a Resolve with-held him, till he saw an ab­solute necessity of discovering himself to hinder the Mischief. Now Camilla put on a fear and weakness which resembl'd a Swoon; and having thrown her self on a Bed in the Room, Leonela be­gan a most doleful Lamentation over her: Alas! said she, how unfortunate should I be, if my Lady, so eminent for Virtue and Chastity as well as Beauty, should thus perish in my Arms? This, and much more she utter'd with that force of per­fect Dissimulation, that whoever had seen her wou'd have concluded her one of the most innocent [Page 433] Virgins in the World, and her Lady a meer per­secuted Penelope. Camilla soon came to her self, and cry'd to Leonela, why don't you call the most Treacherous and Unfaithful of Friends? Go, fly, and let not thy delays waste my Revenge and An­ger in meer Words and idle Threats and Curses. Madam, reply'd Leonela, I will go, but you must first give me that Dagger, lest you commit some outrage upon your self in my absence, which may give an eternal Cause of sorrow to all your Friends that love and value you. Let not those Fears detain you, said Camilla, but assure your self I will not do any thing till you return; for tho' I shall not fear to punish my self in the highest de­gree, yet I shall not, like Lucretia, punish my self without killing him that was the principal cause of my Dishonour. If I must die, I shall not re­fuse it; but I will first satisfie my Revenge on him that has tempted me to come to this guilty Assignation, to make him lament his Crime with­out being guilty of any my self.

Camilla could scarce prevail with Leonela to leave her alone, but at last she obey'd her and with­drew, when Camilla entertain'd her self and her Husband with this following Soliloquy: Good Heav'n said she, had I not better have continued my Repulses, than by this seeming Consent suf­fer Lothario to think Scandalously of me, till my Actions shall convince him of his Error? That indeed might have been better in some respects, but then I should have wanted this opportunity of Revenge, and the Satisfaction of my Husband's injur'd Honour, if he were permitted without any Correction to go off with the Insolence of offering such Criminal Assaults to my Virtue. No, no, let the Traitor's Life attone for the guilt of his false and unfaithful Attempts; and [Page 434] his Blood quench that lewd Fire he was not con­tent should burn in his own Breast. Let the World be witness, if it ever comes to know my Story, that Camilla thought it not enough to pre­serve her Virtue and Loyalty to her Husband en­tire, but also reveng'd the hateful affront and the intended destruction of it. But it might be most convenient perhaps to let Anselmo know of this before I put my Revenge in Execution; yet on the first Attempt I sent him word of it to the Village, and I can attribute his not resenting so notorious an Abuse to nothing but his Generous Temper, and Confidence in his Friend, incapable of believing so try'd a Friend could be guilty of so much as a Thought against his Honour and Re­putation; nor is this incredulity so strange, since I for so long together could not perswade my self of the truth of what my Eyes and Ears convey'd to me; and nothing could have convinc'd me of my generous Error, had his Insolency kept with­in any Bounds, and not dar'd to proceed to large Gifts, large Promises, and a flood of Tears, which he shed as the undissembl'd Testimony of his Passion. But to what purpose are these Consider­ations? Or is there indeed any need of consider­ing to perswade me to a brave Resolve? Av [...]un [...] false thoughts. Revenge is now my Task, let the Treacherous Man approach, let him come, let him die, let him perish; let him but perish, no matter what's the fatal Consequence. My dear Anselmo receiv'd me to his Bosom spotless and Chaste, and so shall the Grave receive me from his Arms. Let the Event be as unlucky as it will, the worst Sollution I can this way suffer is of mingling my own Chaste Blood with the impure and cor­rupted Blood of the most False and Treacherous of Friends. Having said this, she travers'd the Room [Page 435] in so passionate a manner, with the drawn Dagger in her Hand, and shew'd such an Agitation of Spirit in her Looks and Motion, that she appear'd like one distracted, or more like a Murderer, than a tender and delicate Lady.

Anselmo, not a little to his satisfaction, very plainly saw and heard all this from behind the Arras, which with the greatest Reason and Evidence in the World remov'd all his past Doubts and Jea­lousies, and he with abundance of concern wish'd that Lothario would not come, that he might by that means escape the Danger that so apparently threaten'd him; to prevent which he had disco­ver'd himself, had he not seen Leonela at that In­stant bring Lothario into the Room. As soon as Camilla saw him enter, she describ'd a Line with the Poniard on the Ground, and told him the Minuit he presum'd to pas [...] that, she would strike the Dagger to his Heart: Hear me, said she, and observe what I say without Interruption; when I have done, you shall have liberty to make what Reply you please. Tell me first, Lothario, do you know my Husband, and do you know me? The Question is not so difficult but you may give me immediate Answer; there is no need of consider­ing, speak therefore without delay. Lothario was not so dull as not to guess at her Design in having her Husband hid behind the Hangings, and there­fore adapted his Answers so well to her Questions, that the Fiction was lost in the appearance of Reality. I did never imagine, fair Camilla, said Lothario, that you would make this Assignation to ask Questions so distant from the dear End of my Coming. If you had a mind still to delay my pro­mis'd Happiness, you should have prepar'd me for the Disappointment; for, the nearer the Hope of Possession brings us to the Good we desire, the [Page 436] greater is the Pain to have those Hopes destroy'd. But to answer your Demands, I must own, Madam, that I do know your Husband, and he me; that this Knowledge has grown up with us from our Childhood; and that I may be a witness against my self of the Injury I am compell'd by Love to do him, I do also own, Divine Camilla, that you too well know the tenderness of our mutual Friend­ship; yet Love is a sufficient excuse for all my Er­rors, if they were much more Criminal than they are. And, Madam, that I know you is evident, and love you equal to him, for nothing but your Charms could have Power enough to make me forget what I owe to my own Honour, and what to the holy Laws of Friendship, all which I have been forc'd to break by the resistless Tyranny of Love. Ah! had I known you less, I had been more Innocent. If you confess all this, said Camilla, if you know us both, how dare you vi­olate so Sacred a Friendship, injure so true a Friend, and appear thus confidently before me, whom you know to be esteem'd by him the Mirror of his Love, in which that Love so often views it self with Pleasure and Satisfaction; and in which you ought to have survey'd your self so far, as to have seen how small the Temptation is, that has prevail'd on you to wrong him. But alas! this points me to the cause of your Transgression, some suspicious Action of mine when I have been least on my Guard, as thinking my self alone; but assure your self, whatever it was, it proceeds not from Looseness or Levity of Principle, but a Negligence and Liberty which the Sex sometimes innocently fall into when they think themselves unobserv'd. If this were not the Cause, say, Traitor, when did I listen to your Prayers, or in the least regard your Tears and Vows, so that you [Page 437] might derive from thence the smallest hope of accomplishing your infamous Desires? Did I not always with the last Aversion and Disdain reject your Criminal Passion? Did I ever betray a Belief in thy lavish Promises? or admit of thy prodigal Gifts? But since without some Hope no Love can long subsist, I will lay that hateful guilt on some unhappy inadvertency of mine, and therefore will inflict the same punishment on my self that your Crimes deserves. And to shew you that I cannot but be cruel to you, who will not spare my self, I sent for you to be a Witness of that just Sacrifice I shall make to my dear Husband's Injur'd Honour, on which you have fix'd the blackest Mark of In­famy that your Malice could inspire, and which I alas! have sully'd too by my thoughtless neglect of depriving you of the occasion, if indeed I gave any, of nourishing your wicked Intentions. Once more I tell you, that the bare suspicion that my want of Caution, and setting so severe a Guard on my Actions as I ought, has made you harbour such wild and infamous Intentions, is the sharpest of my Afflictions, and what with my own Hands I resolve to punish with the utmost Severity. For, should I leave that Punishment to another, it would but increase my guilt. Yet I will die; but first to satisfy my Revenge, and impartial Justice, I will unmov'd and unrelenting destory the fatal Cause that has reduc'd me to this desperate Condition.

At these Words she flew with such Violence, and so well acted a Fury on Lothario with her na­ked Dagger, that he could scarce think it feign'd, and therefore secur'd himself from her Blow by avoiding it, and holding her Hand. Thereupon, to give more Life to the Fiction, as in a Rage at her disappointed Revenge on Lothario, she cry'd [Page 438] out, since my malicious Fortune denies a com­pleat Satisfaction to my just Desires, at least it shall not be in its Power entirely to defeat my Re­solution. With that, drawing back her Dagger-Hand from Lothario who held it, she struck it into that part of her Body where it might do her the least damage, and then fell down, as fainting away with the Wound. Lothario and Leonela surpriz'd at the unexpected Event, knew not yet what to think, seeing her still lie all bloody on the Ground; Lothario pale and trembling ran to her to take out the Dagger, but was deliver'd of his Fears when he saw so little Blood follow it, and more than ever admir'd the cunning and wit of the Beautiful Camilla. Yet to play his part as well, and shew himself a Friend, he lamented over Camilla's Body in the most pathetick manner in the World, as if she had been really dead; he curs'd himself, and curs'd his Friend that had put him on that fatal Experiment; and knowing that Anselmo heard him, he said such things as were able to draw a greater pity for him than even for Camilla, though she seem'd to have lost her Life in the unfortunate Adventure. Leonela remov'd her Body to the Bed, and begg'd Lothario to go seek some Surgeon, that might with all the secresie in the World cure her Lady's Wound▪ She also ask'd his Advice, how to excuse to her Master, if he should return be­fore it was perfectly cur'd. He reply'd, they might say what they pleas'd, That he was not in a humour of advising, but bid her endeavour to stanch her Mistress's Blood, for he would go where they should never hear more of him; and so he left them, with all the appearance of Grief and Con­cern that the Occasion requir'd. He was no sooner gone, but he had leisure to reflect with the greatest wonder imaginable, on Camilla's and her Woman's [Page 439] Conduct in this Affair; and on the Assurance which this Scene had given Anselmo of his Wife's Virtue; since now he could not but believe he had a second Portia, and he long'd to meet him, to re­joyce over the best dissembl'd Imposture that ever bore away the Opinion of Truth. Leonela stanch'd the Blood, which was no more than was necessary for covering the Cheat, and washing the Wound with Wine only as she bound it up, her discourse was so moving, and so well acted, that it had been alone sufficient to have convinc'd Anselmo that he had the most virtuous Wife in the World. Camilla was not silent, but added fresh Confirmations; in every word she spoke, she complain'd of her Cowar­dise and Baseness of Spirit, that deny'd her time and force to dispatch that Life, which was now so hateful to her. She ask'd her too, whether she should inform her Husband of what had pass'd, or not? Leonela was for her concealing it, since the discovery must infallibly engage her Husband in a Revenge on Lothario, which must as certainly ex­pose him too; for those things were never accom­plish'd without the greatest danger; and that a good Wife ought to the best of her Power pre­vent involving her Husband in Quarrels. Camilla yielded to her Reasons; but added, that they must find out some pretended cause of her Wound, which he would certainly see at his return. Leonela reply'd, that it was a difficult task, since she was incapable even in Jest to dissemble the Truth. Am I not, answer'd Camilla, under the same difficulty, who cannot save my Life by the odious Refuge of a falshood? Had we not better than confess the real Truth, than be caught in a Lie? Well, Madam, return'd Leonela, let this give you no further Trouble, by to morrow Morning I shall find out some expedient or other; though I hope [Page 440] the place where the Wound is, may conceal it enough from his observation to secure us from all apprehension; leave therefore the whole event to Heaven, which always favours and assists the Innocent.

Anselmo saw and heard this formal Tragedy of his ruin'd Honour, with all the Attention im­aginable, in which all the Actors perform'd their Parts so to the Life, that they seem'd the Truth they represented; he wish'd with the last im­patience for the Night, that he might convey him­self from his hiding place, to his Friend's House, and there rejoyce for this happy discovery of his Wife's experienc'd Virtue. Camilla and her Maid took care to furnish him with an opportunity of departing, of which he soon took hold, for fear of losing it. 'Tis impossible to tell you all the Embraces he gave Lothario, and the joy and ex­treme satisfaction he express'd at his good Fortue, or the extravagant Praises he gave Camilla. Lotha­rio heard all this without taking a Friend's share in the Pleasure, for he was shock'd with the con­cern he had to see his Friend so grossly impos'd on, and the guilt of his own Infidelity in injuring his Honour. Though Anselmo easily perceiv'd that Lothario was not touch'd with any pleasure at his Relation, yet he believ'd Camilla's Wound caus'd by him, was the true motive of his not sharing his joy, and therefore assur'd him, he need not too much trouble himself for it, since it could not be dangerous, she and her Woman having agreed to conceal it from him. This cause of his fear being remov'd, he desir'd him to put on a face of Joy, since by his means he should now possess a per­fect happiness and content, and therefore he would spend the rest of his Life in conveying Camilla's Virtue to Posterity, by writing her Praise in [Page 441] Verse. Lotharia approv'd his Resolution, and pro­mis'd to do the same. Thus Anselmo remain'd the most delightfully deceiv'd of any Man alive. He therefore carry'd Lothario immediately to his House, as the Instrument of his Glory, though he was in­deed the only cause of his Infamy and Dishonour. Camilla receiv'd him with a face, that ill express'd the satisfacton of her Mind, being forc'd to put on Frowns in her looks, while her Heart prompted nothing but smiles of Joy for his presence.

For some Months the Fraud was conceal'd, but then Fortune turning her Wheel, discover'd to the World the Wickedness they had so long and arti­ficially disguis'd, and Anselmo's impertinent Curi­osity cost him his Life.

CHAP. VIII. The Conclusion of the Novel of the Curious Impertinent.

THE Novel was come near a Conclusion, when Sancho Pança came running out of Don Quixote's Chamber in a terrible Fright, and crying out help, help, good People, help my Master, he's just now at it, Tooth and Nail, with that same Gyant, the Princess Micomicona's Foe: I ne'er saw a more dreadful Battel in my born days. He has lent him such a Sliver, that whip, off went the Giant's Head, as round as a Turnip. You're mad, Sancho, said the Curate interrupted in his Reading; is thy Master such a Devil of a Heroe, as to fight a Gyant at two thousand Leagues distance? Upon this, they presently heard a [Page 442] noise and bustle in the Chamber, and Don Quixote bawling out, Stay Villain, Robber, stay; since I have thee here, thy Scimitar shall but little avail thee; and with this, they heard him strike with his Sword with all his force against the Walls. Good folks, said Sancho, my Master does not want your hearkning; why don't you run in, and help him; though I believe 'tis after Meat Mustard, for sure the Gyant is by this time gone to Pot, and giving an Account of his ill Life: For I saw his Blood run all about the House, and his Head sailing in the middle on't: But such a Head! 'Tis bigger than any Wine-bagg in Spain. Death and Hell (cries the Inn-keeper) I'll be cut like a Cucum­ber, if this Don Quixote, or Don Devil, has not been hacking my Wine-baggs that stood fill'd at his Bed's head, and this Coxcomb has taken the spilt Liquor for Blood. Then running with the whole Company into the Room, they found the poor Knight in the most comical posture imagin­able.

He was standing in his Shirt, the fore part of it scarcely reaching to the bottom of his Belly, and about a span shorter behind; this added a very peculiar Air to his long, lean Legs, as dirty and hairy as a Beasts. To make him all of a piece, he wore on his Head a little red greasie cast Night-cap of the Inn-keeper's; he had wrapped one of the Bed-Blankets about his left Arm for a Shield; and weilded his drawn Sword in the Right, laying about him pell mell; with now and then a start of some military Expression, as if he had been really engag'd with some Giant. But the best jest of all, he was all this time fast asleep; for the thoughts of the Adventure he had undertaken, had so wrought on his Imagitation, that his de­prav'd fancy had in his sleep represented to him [Page 443] the Kingdom of Micomicon and the Giant; and dreaming that he was then fighting him, he As­saulted the Wine-bags so desperately, that he set the whole Chamber a-float with good Wine. The Inn-keeper, enrag'd to see the havock, flew at Don Quixote with his Fists; and had not Cardenio and the Curate taken him off, he had prov'd a Giant indeed against the Knight. All this could not wake the poor Don, till the Barber throwing a Bucket of cold Water upon him, waken'd him from his sleep, though not from his dream.

The shortness of her Champion's Shirt gave Dorothea a Surfeit of the Battle. Sancho ran up and down the Room searching for the Giant's Head, till finding his labour fruitless; Well, well, said he, now I see plainly that this House is haunted, for when I was here before, in this very Room was I beaten like any Stock-fish, but knew no more than the Man in the Moon who struck me; and now the Giant's Head, that I saw cut off with these Eyes, is vanish'd; and I'm sure I saw the Body spout Blood like a Pump. What a prating and a nonsense does this damn'd Son of a Whore keep about Blood, and a Pump, and I know not what, said the Inn-keeper, I tell you, Rascal, 'tis my Wine-baggs that are flash'd, and my Wine that runs about the Floor here, and I hope to see the Soul of him that spilt it swimming in Hell for his Pains. Well, well, (said Sancho) don't trouble me; I only tell ye, that I can't find the Giant's Head, and my Earldom is gone after it, and so I'm undone, as a Man would undo an Oister: And truly Sancho's waking Dream was as pleasant as his Master's when asleep; the Inn-keeper was almost mad too, to see the foolish Squire harp so on the same string with his frantick Master, and swore they should not come off now as before; [Page 444] that their Chivalry should be no satisfaction for his Wine, but that they should pay him sauce for the damage, and for the very Leathern Patches which the wounded Wine-baggs would want.

Don Quixote in the mean time, believing he had finish'd his Adventure, and mistaking the Curate, that held him by the Arms, for the Prin­cess Micomicona, fell on his knees before him, and with a respect due to a Royal Presence; Now may your Highness, said he, great, and illustrious Princess, live secure, free from any further ap­prehensions from your Conquer'd Enemy, and now am I acquitted of my Engagement, since by the assistance of Heaven, and the Influence of her Favour by whom I live and Conquer, your Ad­venture is so happily atchiev'd. Did not I tell you so, Gentlefolks, (said Sancho) who is Drunk or Mad now? Did not I say, that he had paid off the Giant; the Battel is over, and I am an Earl. The whole Company, (except the Inn-keeper, who gave himself to the Devil) were like to split at the Extravagancies of Master and Man: at last Cardenio and the Curate, having with much ado got Don Quixote to Bed, he presently fell asleep, being heartily tir'd; and then they left him, to comfort Sancho Pança for the loss of the Giant's Head, and the Inn-keeper for the unexpected and sudden Fate of his Wine-bags.

The Hostess in the mean time ran up and down the House grumbling and whining: In an ill hour, said she, did this unlucky Knight-Errant come into my House, I wish for my part I had never seen him, for he has been a dear Guest to me. He and his Man, his Horse and his Ass, went away last time without paying me a cross for their Supper, their Bed, their Litter and Pro­vender; and all, forsooth, because he was seeking [Page 445] Adventures, I say: What the Plague have I to do with his Statutes of Chivalry? if they oblige him not to pay, they must oblige him not to eat nei­ther. 'Twas upon this Score that the t'other Fel­low took away my good Tail; 'tis clear spoil'd, the Hair is all fall'n off, and my Husband can ne­ver use it again. And now to come upon me a­gain with destroying my Wine Bags and spilling my Liquor, may some Body spill his Heart's Blood for't for me: But I will be paid, so I will, and that handsomely too; I will have Satisfaction, Jill by Jill, every Piece, for what I have lost. Her honest Maid Maritornes seconded her Fury; but Mr. Curate stopp'd their Mouths, by promising that he would see them satisfy'd for their Wine and their Bags, but especially for the Tail which they kept such a Clutter about. Dorothea comfort­ed Sancho, assuring him that whenever it appear'd that his Master had kill'd the Giant, and restor'd her to her Dominions, he should be sure of the best Earldom in her Disposal. With this he huckl'd up again, and swore that he himself had seen the Giant's Head, by the same Token that it had a Beard that reach'd down to his Middle; and if it could not be found it must be hid by Witch­craft, for every thing went by Inchantment in that House, as he had try'd it to his Cost when he was there before. Dorothea answer'd, that she be­liev'd him; and desir'd him to pluck up his Spi­rits, for all things would be well. All Parties be­ing quieted, Cardenio, Dorothea, and the rest, en­treated the Curate to finish the Novel, which was so near a Conclusion; and he, in Obedience to their Commands, took up the Book and read on.

Anselmo grew so satisfy'd in Camilla's Virtue, that he liv'd with all the Content and Security in the World; to confirm which, Camilla ever in her [Page 446] Looks seem'd to discover her Aversion to Lothario, which made him desire Anselmo to dispence with his coming to his House, since he found how averse his Wife was to him, and how great a Disgust she had to his Company; but Anselmo would not be perswaded to yield to his Request, and was so blind, that seeking his Content, he perpetually promoted his Dishonour. He was not the only Person pleas'd with the Condition he liv'd in; Leo­nela was so transported by her Amour, that, se­cur'd by her Lady's Connivance, she perfectly a­bandon'd her self to the indiscreet Enjoyment of her Gallant: So that one Night her Master heard some body in her Chamber, and coming to the Door to discover who it was, he found it held fast against him; but at last forcing it open, he saw one leap out of the Window the Instant he enter'd the Room: He wou'd have pursu'd him, but Leonela clinging about him, begg'd him to ap­pease his Anger and Concern, since the Person that made his Escape was her Husband. Anselmo would not believe her, but drawing his Dagger, threatn'd to kill her if she did not immediate­ly make full Discovery of the Matter. Distracted with Fear, she begg'd him to spare her Life, and she would discover things that more nearly related to him than he imagin'd. Speak quickly then, re­ply'd Anselmo, or you die. 'Tis impossible, re­turn'd she, that in this Confusion and Fright I should say any thing that can be understood; but give me but till to Morrow Morning, and I will lay such things before you, as will sufficient­ly surprize and amaze you; but believe me, Sir, the Person that leapt out of the Window is a young Man of this City who is contracted to me. This something appeas'd Anselmo, and pre­vail'd with him to allow her till the next Morn­ing [Page 447] to make her Confession; for he was too well assur'd of Camilla's Virtue by the past Trial, to suspect that there could be any thing relating to her in what Leonela had to tell him: Wherefore fastening her in her Room, and threatning that she should never come out till she had done what she had promis'd, he return'd to his Chamber to Camilla, and told her all that had pass'd, without omitting the Promise she had given to make some strange Discovery to him the next Morning. You may easily imagine the Concern this gave Camilla; she made no Doubt but that the Discovery Leonela had promis'd was of her Disloyalty; and with­out waiting to know whether it were so or not, that very Night, as soon as Anselmo was asleep, taking with her all her Jewels and some Money, she got undiscover'd out of the House, and went to Lothario, inform'd him of all that had pass'd, and desir'd him either to put her into some Place of Safety, or to go with her where they might en­joy each other secure from the Fears of Anselmo. This surprizing Relation so confounded Lothario, that for some Time he knew not what he did, or what Resolution to take; but at last, with Ca­milla's Consent, he put her into a Monastery where his Sister was Abbess; and immediately, without acquainting any Body with his Departure, left the City.

Anselmo as soon as it was Day got up, without missing his Wife, and made Haste to Leonela's Chamber to hear what she had to say to him; but he found no body there, only the Sheets ty'd toge­ther, and fasten'd to the Window, shew'd which Way she had made her Escape; on which he re­turn'd very sad to tell Camilla the Adventure, but was extremely surpriz'd when he found her not in the whole House, nor could hear any News of [Page 448] her from his Servants: But, finding in his Search her Trunks open, and most of her Jewels gone, he no longer doubted of his Dishonour: so, pen­sive and half dress'd as he was, he went to Lothario's Lodging to tell him his Misfortune; but when his Servants inform'd him that he was gone that very Night with all his Money and Jewels, his Pangs were redoubl'd, and his Grief encreas'd almost to Madness. To conclude, he return'd home, found his House empty, for Fear had driven away all his Servants. He knew not what to think, say, or do; he saw himself forsaken by his Friend, his Wife, and his very Servants, with whom he ima­gin'd that Heaven it self had abandon'd him; but his greatest Trouble was to find himself robb'd of his Honour and Reputation, for Camilla's Crime was but too evident from all these concurring Cir­cumstances. After a thousand distracting Thoughts, he resolv'd to retreat to that Village whither he formerly retir'd to give Lothario an Opportunity to ruin him; wherefore fastning up his Doors, he took Horse, full of Despair and languishing Sor­row, the Violence of which was so great, that he had scarce rid half Way when he was forc'd to a­light, and tying his Horse to a Tree, he threw himself beneath it, and spent in that melancholy Posture a thousand racking Reflections, most Part of the Day, till a little before Night he discover'd a Passenger coming the same Road, of whom he enquir'd what News at Florence? The Traveller reply'd, that the most surprizing News that had been heard of late, was now all the Talk of the City, which was, that Lothario had that very Night carry'd away the wealthy Anselmo's Wife Camilla; which is all confess'd by Camilla's Woman, who was apprehended that Night as she slipt from the Window of Anselmo's House by a Pair of Sheets. [Page 449] The Truth of the Story I cannot affirm, continu'd the Traveller; but every Body is astonish'd at the Accident; for no Man could ever suspect such a Crime from a Person engag'd in so strict a Friend­ship with Anselmo as Lothario was, for they were called the Two Friends. Is it yet known, reply'd Anselmo, which way Lothario and Camilla are gone? No, Sir, return'd the Traveller, though the Go­vernour has made as strict a Search after 'em as is possible. Anselmo ask'd no more Questions, but, after they had taken their Leaves of each other, the Traveller left him and pursu'd his Journey.

This mournful News so affected the unfortunate Anselmo, that he was struck with Death almost that very Moment; getting therefore on his Horse as well as he could, he arriv'd at his Friend's House. He knew nothing yet of his Disgrace, but seeing him so pale and melancholy, concluded that some great Misfortune had befall'n him. Anselmo desir'd to be immediately led to his Chamber, and fur­nish'd with Pen, Ink, and Paper, and to be left a­lone with his Door lock'd: When, finding that his End approach'd, he resolv'd to leave in Writing the Cause of his sudden and unexpected Death. Taking therefore the Pen, he began to write; but, unable to finish what he design'd, he dy'd a Mar­tyr to his impertinent Curiosity. The Gentleman finding he did not call, and that it grew late, re­solv'd to enter his Chamber, and see whether his Friend were better or worse; he found him half out of Bed, lying on his Face, with the Pen in his Hand, and a Paper open before him. Seeing him in this Posture he drew near him, call'd and mov'd him, but soon found he was dead; which made him call his Servants to behold the unhappy Event, and then took up the Paper, which he saw was [Page 450] written in Anselmo's own Hand, and was to this Effect.

A Foolish and impertinent Desire has robb'd me of Life. If Camilla hear of my Death, let her know that I forgive her; for she was not oblig'd to do Miracles, nor was there any Reason I should have desir'd or expected it; and since I contriv'd my own Dishonour, there is no Cause —

Thus far Anselmo writ, but Life would not hold out till he could give the Reasons he design'd. The next Day the Gentleman of the House sent Word of Anselmo's Death to his Relations, who al­ready knew his Misfortune, as well as the Monaste­ry whither Camilla was retir'd. She her self was indeed very near that Death which her Husband had pass'd, though not for the Loss of him but Lotha­rio, of which she had lately heard a flying Report. But though she was a Widow now, she would nei­ther take the Veil, nor leave the Monastery, till in a few Days the News was confirm'd of his being slain in a Battel betwixt Monsieur de Lautrec and that great General Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordoua, in the Kingdom of Naples. This was the End of the offending, and too late penitent Friend; the News of which made Camilla immediately profess her self, and soon after overwhelm'd with Grief and Melancholy, pay for her Transgression with the Loss of her Life. This was the unhappy End of them all, proceeding from so impertinent a Begin­ning.

I like this Novel well enough, said the Curate; yet after all I cannot perswade my self, that there's any thing of Truth in it; and if it be purely In­vention, the Author was in the Wrong, for 'tis not [Page 451] to be imagin'd there can ever be a Husband so fool­ish, as to venture on so dangerous an Experiment. Had he made his Husband and Wife, a Gallant and a Mistress, the Fable had appear'd more probable; but, as it is, 'tis next to impossible. However, I must confess, I have nothing to object against his manner of telling it.

CHAP. IX. Containing an Account of many surprizing Accidents in the Inn.

AT the same Time the Inn-keeper, who stood at the Door, seeing Company coming, More Guests, cry'd he, a brave jolly Troop, on my Word. If they stop here, we may sing O be joy­ful. What are they, said Cardenio? Four Men, said the Host gallantly Mounted, with black Masks on their Faces, and Arm'd with Lances and Targets; a Lady too all in white, that rides single and Mask'd; and two running Foot men. Are they near, said the Curate? Just at the Door, reply'd the Inn-keeper. Hearing this, Dorothea veil'd her self, and Cardenio had just time enough to step into the next Room, where Don Quixote lay, when the Strangers came into the Yard. The four Horse­men, who made a very genteel Appearance dis­mounted, and went to help down the Lady, whom one of them taking in his Arms, carry'd into the House; where he seated her in a Chair by the Chamber-door, into which Cardenio had withdrawn. All this was done without discovering their Faces, [Page 452] or speaking a Word; only the Lady as she sat down in the Chair, breath'd out a deep Sigh, and let her Arms sink down in a weak and fainting Posture. The Curate, marking their odd Behaviour, which rais'd in him a Curiosity to know who they were, went to their Servants in the Stable, and ask'd what their Masters were? Indeed Sir, said one of them, that's more than I can tell you; they seem of no mean Quality, especially that Gentleman who carry'd the Lady into the House, for the rest pay him great Respect, and his Word is a Law to them. Who is the Lady, said the Curate? We know no more of her than of the rest answer'd the Fellow, for we could never see her Face all the time, and 'tis impossible we should know her or them any otherwise. They pick'd us up on the Road, my Comrade and my self, and prevail'd with us to wait on them to Andalusia, promising to pay us well for our Trouble; so that, bating the two days Travelling in their Company, they are utter Stran­gers to us. Could you not hear them name one another all this time, ask'd the Curate? No, truly, Sir, answer'd the Footman, for we heard them not speak a Syllable all the way: The poor Lady in­deed us'd to sigh and grieve so pitifully, that we are perswaded she has no Stomach to this Journey: Whatever may be the Cause we know not; by her Garb she seems to be a Nun, but by her Grief and Melancholy one might guess they are going to make her one, when perhaps the poor Girl has no Fancy to live in a Nunnery. Very likely, said the Curate; and with that leaving them, he return'd to the Place where he left Dorothea, who, hearing the Mask'd Lady sigh so frequently, mov'd by the natural Pity of the soft Sex, could not forbear en­quiring the Cause of her Sorrow. Pardon me, Madam, said she, if I beg to know your Grief; [Page 453] and assure your self, that my Request does not pro­ceed from meer Curiosity, but an earnest Inclina­tion to serve and assist you, if your Misfortune be any such as our Sex is naturally subject to, and in the Power of a Woman to cure. The melancholy Lady made no return to her Compliment, and Do­rothea press'd her in vain with new Reasons, when the Gentleman, whom the Foot-boy signify'd to be the chief of the Company, interpos'd: Madam, said he, don't trouble your self to throw away any generous Offer on that ungrateful Woman, whose Nature cannot return an Obligation; neither ex­pect any Answer to your Demands, for her Tongue is a Stranger to Truth. Sir, said the disconsolate Lady, my Truth and Honour have made me thus miserable, and my Sufferings are sufficient to prove you the falsest and most base of Men. Cardenio be­ing only parted from the Company by Don Quix­ote's Chamber-door, over-heard these last Words very distinctly, and immediately cry'd out, Good Heaven, what do I hear! what Voice struck my Ear just now? The Lady startl'd at his Exclama­tion, sprung from the Chair, and would have bolt­ed into the Chamber whence the Voice came; but the Gentleman perceiving it, laid hold on her, to prevent her, which so disorder'd the Lady that her Mask fell off, and discover'd an incomparable Face, Beautiful as an Angel's, tho' very pale, and strange­ly discompos'd, her Eyes eagerly rolling on every side, which made her appear distracted. Dorothea and the rest, not guessing what her Eyes sought by their violent motion, beheld her with Grief and Wonder. She struggl'd so hard, and the Gentle­man was so disorder'd by holding her, that his Mask dropt off, and discover'd to Dorothea, who was assisting to hold the Lady, the Face of her Hus­band Don Ferdinand: Scarce had she known him, [Page 454] when with a long and dismal Oh! she fell in a Swoon, and would have reach'd the Floor with all her Weight, had not the Barber by good Fortune stood behind, and supported her. The Curate ran presently to help her, and pulling off her Veil to throw Water in her Face, Don Ferdinand presently knew her, and was struck almost as dead as she at the Sight; nevertheless he did not quit Lucinda, who was the Lady that struggl'd so hard to get out of his Hands. Cardenio hearing Dorothea's Excla­mation, and imagining it to be Lucinda's Voice, flew into the Chamber in great Disorder, and the first Object he met was Don Ferdinand holding Lu­cinda, who presently knew him. They were all struck dumb with Amazement: Dorothea gaz'd on Don Ferdinand; Don Ferdinand on Cardenio; and Car­denio and Lucinda on one another. At last Lucinda broke Silence, and addressing Don Ferdinand, Let me go, said she; unloose your hold, my Lord; by the Generosity you shou'd have, or by your Inhu­manity, since it must be so, I conjure you, leave me, that I may cling like Ivy to my only Support; and from whom neither your Threats, nor Pray­ers, nor Gifts, nor Promises, could ever alienate my Love. Contend not against Heaven, whose Power alone could bring me to my dear Husband's Sight, by such strange and unexpected means: You have a thousand Instances to convince you, that nothing but Death can make me ever forget him: Let this at least turn your Love into Rage, which may prompt you to end my Miseries with my Life, here before my dear Husband, where I shall be proud to lose it, since my Death may convince him of my unshaken Love and Honour, till the last Minute of my Life. Dorothea by this time had recover'd, and finding by Lucinda's Discourse, who she was, and that Don Ferdinand would not unhand [Page 455] her, she made a Virtue of Necessity and falling at his Feet, my Lord, cry'd she, all bath'd in Tears, if that Beauty which you hold in your Arms has not altogether dazl'd your Eyes, you may behold at your Feet, the once happy, but now miserable Dorothea. I am that poor and humble Villager, whom your generous Bounty, I dare not say your Love, did condescend to raise to the honour of calling you her own: I am she, who, once con­fin'd to peaceful Innocence, led a contented Life, till your Importunity, your Shew of Honour, and deluding Words, charm'd me from my Retreat; and made me resign my Freedom to your Power: How I am recompenc'd may be guess'd by my Grief; and my being found here in this strange Place, whither I was led, not through any disho­nourable Ends, but purely by Despair and Grief to be forsaken of You. 'Twas at your Desire I was bound to you by the strictest Tye, and whatever you do, you can never cease to be mine. Consider, my dear Lord, that my matchless Love may bal­lance the Beauty and Nobility of the Person for whom you would forsake me; she cannot share your Love, for 'tis only mine; and Cardenio's Inte­rest in her will not admit a Partner. 'Tis easier far, my Lord, to re-call your wandring Desires, and fix them upon her that adores you, than to draw her to love who hates you. Remember how you did sollicit my humble State, and conscious of my Meanness, yet paid a Veneration to my Inno­cence, which join'd with the honourable Condi­tion of my yielding to your Desires, pronounce me free from ill Design or Dishonour. Consider these undeniable Truths: Have some Regard to your Honour! Remember you're a Christian! Why should you then make her Life end so miserably, whose Beginning your Favour made so happy; If [Page 456] I must not expect the Usage and Respect of a Wife, let me but serve you as a Slave; so I belong to you, though in the meanest Rank, I never shall complain: Let me not be expos'd to the slandring Reflections of the Censorious World, by so cruel a Separation from my Lord: Afflict not the decli­ning Years of my poor Parents, whose faithful Services to you and yours have merited a more suitable Return. If you imagine the Current of your Noble Blood should be defil'd by mixing with mine, consider how many Noble Houses have run in such a Channel; besides, the Woman's Side is not essentially requisite to ennoble Descent! but chiefly think on this, that Virtue is the truest No­bility, which if you stain by basely wronging me, you bring a greater Blot upon your Family than Marrying me could cause. In fine, my Lord, you cannot, must not disown me for your Wife; to at­test which Truth, I call your own Words, which must be true, if you prize your self for Honour, and that Nobility, whose want you so despise in me; witness your Oaths and Vows, witness that Heaven which you so oft invok'd to ratify your Promises; and if all these should fail, I make my last Appeal to your own Conscience, whose Sting will always represent my Wrongs fresh to your Thoughts, and disturb your Joys amidst your greatest Pleasures.

These, with many such Arguments, did the mournful Dorothea urge, appearing so lovely in her Sorrow, that Don Ferdinand's Friends as well as all the rest, sympathiz'd with her; Lucinda parti­cularly, as much admiring her Wit and Beauty, as mov'd by the Tears, the piercing Sighs and Moans that follow'd her Entreaties; and she would have gone nearer to have comforted her, had not Ferdi­nand's Arms, that still held her, prevented it. He [Page 457] stood full of Confusion, with his Eyes fix'd atten­tively on Dorothea a great while; at last opening his Arms, he quitted Lucinda, Thou hast Conquer'd cry'd he, Charming Dorothea, thou hast Conquer'd me, 'tis impossible to resist so many united Truths and Charms. Lucinda was still so disorder'd and weak, that she would have fall'n when Ferdi­nand quitted her, had not Cardenio, without regard to his Safety, leap'd forward and caught her in his Arms, and embracing her with Eagerness and Joy; Thanks Gracious Heaven, cry'd he aloud, my dear, my faithful Wife, thy Sorrows now are ended; for where canst thou rest more safe than in my Arms, which now support thee, as once they did when my bless'd Fortune first made thee mine. Lu­cinda then opening her Eyes, and finding her self in the Arms of her Cardenio, without regard to Ce­remony or Decency, threw her Arms about his Neck, and laying her Face to his, Yes, said she, thou art he, thou art my Lord indeed! 'Tis even you your self, the right Owner of this poor har­rass'd Captive. Now Fortune act thy worst, nor Fears nor Threats shall ever part me more, from the sole Support and Comfort of my Life. This Sight was very surprizing to Don Ferdinand and the other Spectators. Dorothea perceiving by Don Fer­dinand's Change of Countenance, and laying his Hand to his Sword, that he prepar'd to assault Cardenio, fell suddenly on her Knees; and with an endearing Embrace, held Don Ferdinand's Legs so fast, that he could not stir. What means, cry'd she, all in Tears, the only Refuge of my Hope? see here thy own and dearest Wife at thy Feet, and her you would enjoy in her true Husband's Arms. Think then, my Lord, how unjust is your Attempt, to dissolve that Knot which Heaven has ty'd so fast. Can you e'er think or hope Success in your Design [Page 458] on her, who, contemning all Dangers, and con­firm'd in strictest Constancy and Honour, before your Face lies bath'd in Tears of Joy and Passion in her true Lover's Bosom. For Heaven's sake I intreat you, by your own Words I conjure you to mitigate your Anger, and permit that faithful Pair to consummate their Joys, and spend their remain­ing Days in Peace: Thus may you make it appear that you are Generous and truly Noble, giving the World so strong a Proof that you have your Rea­son at Command, and your Passion in Subjection. All this while, Cardenio, though he still held Lu­cinda in his Arms, had a watchful Eye on Don Ferdinand; resolving, if he had made the least Of­fer to his Prejudice, to make him repent it and all his Party, if possible, though at the Expence of his Life. But Don Ferdinand's Friends, the Curate, the Barber, and all the Company, (not forgetting ho­nest Sancho Pança) got together about Don Ferdinand, and entreated him to pity the Beautiful Dorothea's Tears; that considering what she had said, the Truth of which was apparent, it would be the highest Injustice to frustrate her lawful Hopes; that their strange and wonderful meeting could not be attributed to Chance, but the peculiar and directing Providence of Heaven; that nothing, (as Mr. Curate very well urg'd) but Death could part Cardenio from Lucinda; and that tho' the Edge of the Sword might separate them, he would make them happier by Death than he could hope to be by surviving; that in irrecoverable Accidents, a Submission to Fate, and a Resignation of our Wills, shew'd not only the greatest Prudence, but also the highest Courage and Generosity; that he should not envy those happy Lovers what the Bounty of Heaven had conferred on them, but that he should turn his Eyes on Dorothea's Grief, view her incom­parable [Page 459] Beauty, which, with her true and unfeign­ed Love, made large Amends for the Meanness of her Parentage; but Principally it lay upon him, if he glory'd in the Titles of Nobility and Christi­anity, to keep his Promise unviolated: That the more reasonable Part of Mankind could not other­wise be satisfi'd, or have any esteem for him: Also that it was the special Prerogative of Beauty (if heightn'd by Virtue, and adorn'd with Modesty) to lay claim to any Dignity, without Disparage­ment or Scandal to the Person that raises it; and that the strong Dictates of Delight having been once indulg'd, we are not to be blam'd for follow­ing them afterwards, provided they be not unlaw­ful. In short, To these Reasons they added so ma­ny enforcing Arguments, that Don Ferdinand, who was truly a Gentleman, could no longer resist Rea­son, but stoop'd down, and embracing Dorothea, Rise, Madam, said he, 'tis not proper that she should lie prostrate at my Feet who triumphs over my Soul: If I have not hitherto paid you all the re­spect I ought, 'twas perhaps so order'd by Hea­ven, that having by this a stronger conviction of your Constancy and Goodness, I may henceforth set the greater value on your Merit: Let the fu­ture Respects and Services I shall pay you, plead a Pardon for my past Transgressions; and let the violent Passions of my Love, that first made me yours, be an excuse for that which caus'd me to forsake you: View the happy Lucinda's Eyes, and there read a thousand farther Excuses; but I pro­mise henceforth never to disturb her Quiet; and may she live long and contented with her dear Cardenio; as I hope to do with my dearest Doro­thea. Thus concluding, he embrac'd her again so lovingly, that it was with no small difficulty that he kept in his Tears, which he endeavour'd [Page 460] to conceal, being asham'd to discover so Effemi­tate a proof of his Remorse.

Cardenio, Lucinda, and the greatest part of the Company could not so well command their Passi­ons, but all wept for joy; even Sancho Pança himself shed Tears, though, as he afterwards confess'd, it was not for downright Grief, but be­cause he found not Dorothea to be the Queen of Micomicona, as he suppos'd, and of whom he ex­pected so many Favours and Preferments. Cardenio and Lucinda fell at Don Ferdinand's Feet, giving him thanks, with the strongest expressions which Gratitude could suggest; he rais'd them up, and receiv'd their Acknowledgments with much Mo­desty; then begg'd to be inform'd by Dorothea, how she came to that Place. She related to him all she had told Cardenio, but with such a Grace, that what were mis-fortunes to her, prov'd an unaccounta­ble pleasure to those that heard her Relation. Af­terwards Don Ferdinand told all that had befall'n him in the City, after he found the Paper in Lu­cinda's Bosom, which declar'd Cardenio to be her Husband; how he would have kill'd her, had not her Parents prevented him; how afterwards, mad with Shame and Anger, he left the City, to wait a more commodious Opportunity of Re­venge; how in a short time he learnt that Lucinda was fled to a Monastery, resolving to end her Days there, if she could not spend them with Cardenio; that, having desir'd those three Gentle­men to go with him, they went to the Monastery, and waiting till they found the Gate open, he left two of the Gentlemen to secure the Door, while he with the other enter'd the House, where they found Lucinda, talking with a Nun in the Cloister; they forcibly brought her thence to a Village, where they disguis'd themselves, for [Page 461] their more convenient flight, which they more easily brought about, the Monastery being situate in the Fields, distant a good way from any Town. He likewise added, how Lucinda finding her self in his Power, fell in a Swoon, and that after she came to her self, she continually wept and sigh'd, but would not speak a Syllable; and that accom­pany'd with Silence only and Tears, they had Travell'd, till they came to the Inn, which prov'd to him as his arrival at Heaven, having put a hap­py conclusion to all his earthly Misfortunes.

CHAP. X. The History of the Famous Princess Mico­micona continu'd, with other pleasant Adventures.

THE Joy of the whole Company was un­speakable by the happy conclusion of this dangerous business; Dorothea, Cardenio, and Lucinda thought the sudden change of their Affairs too surprizing to be real; and through a disuse of good Fortune, could hardly be induc'd to believe their happiness: Don Ferdinand thank'd Heaven a thousand times for its propitious Conduct, in lead­ing him out of a Labyrinth, in which his Honour and Virtue were like to have been lost. The Cu­rate, as he was very instrumental in the general Reconciliation, had likewise no small share in the general Joy; and that no Discontent might sour their universal Satisfaction, Cardenio and the Curate engag'd to see the Hostess satisfi'd for all Damages [Page 462] committed by Don Quixote: only poor Sancho droop'd pitifully; he found his Lordship and his hopes vanish'd into Smoak, the Princess Micomicona was chang'd to Dorothea, and the Giant to Don Ferdinand; thus very musty and melancholy he slipp'd into his Master's Chamber, who was just waken'd.

I hope your early rising will do you no hurt, said he, Sir Knight of the woful Figure; but you may now sleep on till Doom's-day if you will; nor need you trouble your head any longer about killing any Gyant, or restoring the Princess, for all that is done to your hand. That's more than probable, answer'd the Knight, for I have had the most extraordinary and prodigious engagement with the Giant, that I ever did, or shall maintain during the whole Course of my Life; yes, with one cross stroke I laid his Head thwack on the Ground, whence the great effusion of Blood seem'd like a violent stream of Water. Of Wine you mean, said Sancho, for you must know (if you know it not already) that your Worship's dead Giant is a broach'd Wine-bag, and the Blood some thirty Gallons of Tent which it held in its Belly, and your Head so cleverly struck off, is the Whore my Mother; and so the Devil take both Giant and Head, and altogether, for Sancho. What say'st thou, mad Man, said the Don, thou'rt frantick sure. Rise, rise, Sir, said Sancho, and see what fine Work you have cut out for your self; here's the Devil-and-all to pay for, and your great Queen is chang'd into a private Gentle-woman, call'd Dorothea, with some other such odd Matters, that you will wonder with a Vengeance. I can wonder at nothing here, said Don Quixote, where you may remember I told you all things are rul'd by Inchantment. I believe it, quoth Sancho, had [Page 463] my tossing in a Blanket been of that kind; but sure 'twas the likest a tossing in a Blanket of any think I ever knew in my Life. And this same Inn-keeper, I remember very well, was one of those that toss'd me into the Air, and as cleverly and heartily he did it as a Man could wish, I'll say that for him; so that after all, I begin to smell a Rat, and do per'lously suspect, that all our In­chantments will end in nothing but Bruises and broken Bones. Heaven will retrieve all, said the Knight; I will therefore dress and march to the discovery of these wonderful transformations. While Sancho made him ready, the Curate gave Don Ferdinand and the rest an account of Don Quixot's Madness, and of the device he used to draw him from the Poor Rock, to which the sup­pos'd disdain of his Mistress had banisht him in Imagination. Sancho's Adventure made also a part in the Story, which prov'd very diverting to the Strangers. He added, that since Dorothea's change of Fortune had baulkt their design that way, some other trick should be found to decoy him home: Cardenio offer'd his Service in the Affair, and that Lucinda should personate Dorothea: No, no, (an­swer'd Don Ferdinand,) Dorothea shall humour the Jest still, if this honest Gentleman's Habitation be not very far off. Only two days Journey said the Curate; I would ride twice as far (said Don Ferdinand) for the pleasure of so good and chari­table an Action. By this Don Quixote had Sally'd out Arm'd Cap-a-pee, Mambrino's Helmet, (with a great Hole in it,) on his Head; his Shield on his left Arm, and with his right he lean'd on his Lance. The dun Complexion of his meagre and weather-beaten Face, the unaccountable medley of his unsuitable Arms, together with his grave and solemn Port, struck Don Ferdinand and his Com­panions [Page 464] dumb with Admiration, while the Cham­pion casting his Eyes on Dorothea, with great Gra­vity and Solidity, broke silence with these Words.

I am inform'd by this my Squire, beautiful Lady, that your Greatness is annihilated, and your Ma­jesty reduc'd to nothing; for of a Queen and mighty Princess, as you us'd to be, you are become a private Damsel. If any express Order from the Negromantic King your Father (doubting the A­bility and Success of my Arm in the reinstating you) has occasion'd this change, I must tell him, that he is no Conjurer in these Matters; nor is he skill'd in the Revolutions of Chivalry: For had he been conversant in the Study of Knight-Erran­try as I have been, he might have found, that in every Age, Champions of less Fame than Don Quixote de la Mancha, have finish'd more desperate Adventures; since the killing of a pitiful Giant, how Arrogant soever he may be, is no such great Atchievement; for, not many Hours past, I en­counter'd one my self; the Success I will not mention, lest the Incredulity of some People might distrust the reality; but Time, the discoverer of all things, will disclose it, when we least expect. Hold there, said the Host, 'twas with two Wine-bags, but no Giant that you fought. Don Ferdi­nand silenc'd the Inn-keeper, and bid him by no means interrupt Don Quixote, who thus went on. To conclude, most High and Disinherited Lady, if your Father for the Causes already mention'd, has caus'd this Metamorphosis in your Person, be­lieve him not; for there is no Peril on Earth, thro' which my Sword shall not open a way; and assure your self, that in a few Days, by the overthrow of your Enemy's Head, it shall six on yours that Crown, which is your lawful Inheritance. Here Don Quixote stopt, waiting the Princess's Answer; [Page 465] she assur'd of Don Ferdinand's Consent to carry on the Jest, till Don Quixote was carry'd home, and assuming a Face of Gravity, Whosoever (answer'd she) has inform'd you, Valorous Knight of the woful Figure, that I have alter'd or chang'd my Condition, has impos'd upon you; for I am just the same to Day as Yesterday; 'tis true some un­expected, but fortunate Accidents have vary'd some circumstances of my Fortune, much to my Advan­tage, and far beyond my Hopes; but I am neither chang'd in my Person, nor alter'd in my Resolu­tion of imploying the Force of your redoubtable and invincible Arm in my Favour. I therefore ap­ply my self to your usual Generosity; to have those Words spoken to my Father's Dishonour recall'd; and believe these easie and infallible means to re­dress my Wrongs, the pure effects of his Wisdom and Policy; as the good Fortune I now enjoy, has been the consequence of your surprizing Deeds, as this Noble presence can testify; what should hin­der us then from setting forward to morrow Morn­ing, depending for a happy and successful conclu­sion, on the Will of Heaven, and the Power of your unparallell'd Courage.

The ingenious Dorothea having concluded, Don Quixote turning to Sancho, with all the Signs of Fury imaginable; now must I tell thee, poor paul­try hangdog (said he) thou art the veryest Rascal in all Spain; tell me, Rogue, Scoundrel, did not you just now inform me, that this Princess was changed into a little private Damsel, call'd Doro­thea; and the Head which I lopp'd from the Giant's Shoulders, was the Whore your Mother, with a thousand other Absurdities: Now by all the Powers of Heaven, (looking up, and grinding his Teeth together) I have a mind so to use thee, as to make thee appear a miserable example to all suc­ceeding [Page 466] Squires, that shall dare to tell a Knight-Errant a Lie. Good your Worship, cry'd Sancho, have patience, I beseech you: Mayhap I am mis­taken or so, about my Lady Princess Micomicona's Concern there; but that the Giant's Head came off the Wine-bags Shoulders, and that the Blood was as good Tent as ever was tipt over Tongue, I'll take my corporal Oath on't; Gadzookers Sir, are not the Baggs all hack'd and slash'd within there at your Bed's-head, and the Wine all in a puddle in your Chamber? But you'll guess at the Meat presently by the Sauce; the proof o' the Pudding is in the eating, Master; and if my Land-lord here don't let you know it to your cost, he's a very honest and civil Fellow, that's all. Sancho, said the Don, I pronounce thee non Compos, I there­fore pardon thee, and have done. 'Tis enough, said Don Ferdinand, we therefore in pursuance of the Princess's Orders will this Night refresh our selves, and to morrow's Sun sets us out to attend the Lord Don Quixote, in prosecution of this im­portant Enterprize he has undertaken, being all impatient to be Eye-witnesses of his celebrated and matchless Courage. I shall be proud of the honour of serving and waiting upon you, my good Lord, reply'd Don Quixote, and reckon my self infinitely oblig'd by the favour and good opinion of so ho­nourable a Company; which I shall endeavour to improve and confirm, though at the expence of the last drop of my Blood.

Many other Compliments had pass'd between Don Quixote and Don Ferdinand, when the arrival of a Stranger interrupted them. His Dress re­presented him a Christian newly return'd from Barbary: He was clad in a short-skirted Coat of blue Cloath, with short Sleeves and no Collar, his Breeches were of blue Linnen, with a Cap of the [Page 467] same Colour, a pair of Date-colour'd Stockings, and a Turkish Scimitar hung by a Scarf, in manner of a Shoulder-Belt. There rid a Woman in his Company, clad in a Moorish Dress, with her Face cover'd by her Veil; she had on a little Cap of Gold-Tissue, and a Turkish Mantle that reach'd from her Shoulders to her Feet. The Man was well shap'd and strong, his Age about Forty, his Face somewhat Tann'd, his Mustachoes long, and his Beard handsome: In short, his Genteel mien and Person were too distinguishable, to let the Gen­tleman be hid by the meanness of his Habit. He call'd presently for a Room, and being answer'd that all were full, seem'd a little troubl'd; how­ever, he went to the Woman who came along with him, and took her down from her Ass. The Ladies being all surpriz'd at the oddness of the Moorish Dress, had the curiosity to flock about the Stranger, and Dorothea very discreetly imagining that both she and her Conductor were tir'd, and took it ill that they could not have a Chamber; I hope, Madam, you will bear your ill Fortune patiently, said she, for want of room is an incon­venience incident to all publick Inns: But if you please, Madam, to favour us with your Compa­ny, you may perhaps find that you have met with worse Entertainment on the Road, than what this place affords. The unknown Lady made her no answer, but rising up, laid her hands across her Breast, bow'd her Head and bended her Body, as a sign that she acknowledg'd the Favour. By her silence they conjectur'd her to be undoubted­ly a Moor, and that she could not speak Spanish. Her Companion was now come back from the Stable, and told them; Ladies, I hope you will excuse this Gentlewoman from answering any Questions, for she is very much a stranger to our Language. We are only, Sir, answer'd Lucinda, [Page 468] making her an offer, which Civility obliges us to make all Strangers, especially of our own Sex; that she would make us happy in her Company all Night, and fare as we do; we will make very much of her, Sir, and she shall want for nothing that the House affords. I return you humble thanks, dear Madam, answer'd the Stranger, in the Lady's behalf and my own; and I infinitely prize the favour which the present exigence, and the worth of the Donors, make doubly engaging. Is the Lady, pray Sir, a Christian or a Moor, ask'd Dorothea? Our Charity would make us hope she were the former; but by her attire and silence we are afraid she is the latter. Outwardly, Madam, answers he, she appears and is a Moor, but in her heart a zealous Christian, which her longing de­sires of being Baptiz'd have expresly testifiy'd. I have had no opportunity of having her Christen'd since she left Algiers, which was her Habitation and Native Country; nor has any imminent dan­ger of death oblig'd her to be brought to the Font, till she be better instructed in the Principles of our Religion; but, I hope, by Heavens assistance, to have her shortly Baptiz'd with decency suit­ing her Quality, which is much above what her Equipage or mine seem to promise.

These words rais'd in them all a Curiosity to be farther inform'd who the Moor and her Conductor were; but they thought it improper then to put them to any more particular relation of their for­tunes, because they wanted rest and refreshment after their Journey. Dorothea placing the Lady by her, begg'd her to take off her Veil. She look'd on her Companion, as if she requir'd him to let her know what she said; which, when he had let her understand in the Arabian Tongue, joyning his own request also, she discover'd so charming a [Page 469] Face, that Dorothea imagin'd her more Beautiful than Lucinda; she on the other hand, fancy'd her handsomer than Dorothea; and most of the Compa­ny believ'd her more Beautiful than both of 'em. As Beauty has always a Prerogative, or rather Charm, to attract Mens inclinations, the whole Company dedicated their desires to serve the love­ly Moor. Don Ferdinand ask'd the Stranger her Name, he answer'd Lela Zoraida; she heard him, and guessing what they ask'd, suddenly reply'd with great concern, though very gracefully, No, no Zoraida, Maria, Maria; giving them to understand, that her Name was Maria and not Zoraida. These Words, spoken with so much eagerness, rais'd a concern in every Body, the Ladies especially, whose natural tenderness shew'd it self by their Tears; and Lucinda embracing her very lovingly, Ay, ay, said she, Maria, Maria, which words the Moorish Lady repeated by way of Answer. Zo­raida Macange, added she; as much as to say, not Zoraida. The Night coming on, and the Inn-keeper by order of Don Ferdinand's Friends, having made haste to provide them the best Supper he could, the Cloath was laid on a long Table, there being neither round nor square in the House. Don Quixote after much Ceremony, was prevail'd upon to sit at the Head, he desir'd the Lady Mico­micona to sit next to him, and the rest of the Com­pany having plac'd themselves according to their Rank and Convenience, they eat their Supper very plentifully. Don Quixote, to raise the diversion, never minded his Meat, but inspir'd with the same Spirit that mov'd him to preach so much to the Goat-herds, he began to hold forth in this manner. Certainly, Gentlemen, if we rightly consider it, those who make Knight-Errantry their Profession, often meet with most surprizing and stupendous [Page 470] Adventures. For what Mortal in the World, at this time entring 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 woefol 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 honourable, as it is more expos'd to Dan­gers. Let none presume to tell me that the Pen is preferable to the Sword; for be they who they will, I shall tell them they know not what they say. For the reason they give, and on which chiefly they rely, is, that the labour of the Mind exceeds that of the Body, and that the Exercise of Arms depends only on the Body; as if the use of them were the Business of Porters, which requires nothing but much strength. Or as if this, which we who profess it call Chivalry, did not include the Acts of Fortitude, which depend very much upon the Understanding. Or else, as if that Warriour, who Commands an Army, or defends a City besieg'd, did not labour as much with the Mind as with the Body. If this be not so, let Experience teach us, whether it be possible by bodily strength to discover or guess the intentions of an Enemy. The forming Designs, laying of Stratagems, overcoming of Difficulties, and shunning of Dangers, are all Works of the Understanding, wherein the Body has no share. It being therefore evident, that the Exercise of Arms requires the help of the Mind as well as Learning, let us see in the next place, whether the Scholar or the Soldier's Mind undergoes the [Page 471] greatest labour. Now this may be the better known, by regarding the End and Object each of them aims at; for that intention is to be most valu'd, which makes the noblest end its Object. The scope and end of Learning, I mean, humane 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 this) is to give a perfection to distributive Justice, bestowing upon every one his due, and to procure and cause good Laws to be observ'd; 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 Men can wish for in this Life. And therefore the first good News the World re­ceiv'd, were those the Angels brought that Night, which was the beginning of our Day, when they sang in the Air, Glory on high, and Peace upon Earth to Men of Good Will. And the only man­ner of Salutation taught by the best Master in Heaven or upon Earth to his Friends and Favou­rites, was, that entring any House they should say, Peace be in 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 excells the End of Learning, let us now weigh the Bodily labours the Scholar undergoes, against those the Warriour suffers; and then see which are greatest. The Method and Language Don Quixote us'd in delivering himself were such, that none of his Hearers at that time look'd upon [Page 472] him as a Madman. But on the contrary, most of them being Gentlemen, to whom the use of Arms properly appertains, they gave him a willing At­tention; and he proceeded in this manner. 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 urg'd to express his Misery; for he that is poor enjoys no happiness, but labours 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, which is the great­est of a Scholar's Misfortunes; neither can the Learned wholly want another Man's Fire or Chimney-corner, where, though they be not thoroughly heated, yet they gather warmth, and at last they lie at Night under Covert. I will not touch upon other less material Circumstances, as the want of Linnen, and scarcity of Shooes, the thinness and baldness of their Cloaths, 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 arriv'd, we have seen many of them, who having been carry'd by a Fortunate Gale through all these Quick-sands, from a Chair Govern the World; their Hunger being chang'd into Satiety, their Cold into com­fortable Warmth, their Nakedness into Magnificence of Apparel; and the Mat they us'd to lie upon, in­to stately Beds of costly Silks and softest Linnen, a Reward due to their Virtue. But yet their suf­ferings [Page 473] being compar'd with those the Soldier en­dures, appear much inferiour, as I shall in the next place make out.

CHAP. XI. A Continuation of Don Quixote's curious Discourse upon Arms and Learning.

SInce, speaking of the Scholar, we began by his Poverty, and its several parts, continu'd Don Quixote, let us now observe whether the Soldier be any thing richer than he; and we shall find that Poverty it self is not poorer; for he de­pends on his miserable Pay, which he receives but seldom, or perhaps never; or else in that he makes by Marauding, with the hazard of his Life, and trouble of his Conscience. Such is sometimes his want of Apparel, that a slash'd Buff-Coat is all his Holiday Rayment and Shirt; and in the depth of Winter, being in the open Field, he has nothing to cherish him against the sharpness of the Season, but the breath of his Mouth, which issuing from an empty place, I am perswaded is it self cold, though contrary to the Rules of Nature. But now see how he expects Night to make amends for all these hardships in the Bed prepar'd for him, which, unless it be his own fault, never proves too narrow; for he may freely lay out as much of the ground as he pleases, and tumble to his con­tent, without danger of losing the Sheets. But above all, when the day shall come, wherein be is to put in practice the Exercise of his Profession, [Page 474] and strive to gain some new degree, when the day of Battel shall come, then as a Mark of his Ho­nour, shall his Head be dignify'd with a Cap made of Lint, to stop a hole made by a Bullet, or he perhaps carry'd off maim'd, at the expence of a Leg or an Arm. And if this do not happen, but that merciful Heaven preserve his Life and Limbs, it may fall out that he shall remain as poor as be­fore, and must run through many Rencounters and Battles, and always come off Victorious, to obtain some little Preferment; and these Miracles too are rare: But, I pray tell me, Gentlemen, if ever you made it your Observation, how few are those who obtain due rewards in War, in com­parison of those Numbers that Perish? Doubtless you will answer, that there is no parity between them; that the slain are without number, that three numeral Figures will serve to make the sum of those that live to be rewarded. It is quite other­wise with Scholars, not only those who follow the Law, but others also, who all either by hook or by crook get a livelihood, so that though the Soldier's Sufferings be much greater, yet his Re­ward is much less. To this it may be answer'd, that it is easier to reward two thousand Scholars, than thirty thousand Soldiers, because the former are recompenc'd at the Expence of the Publick, by giving them Employments, which of necessity must be bestow'd on those of their Profession, but the latter cannot be gratify'd otherwise than at the Cost of the Master that employs them; yet this very difficulty makes good my Argument. But let us lay this Matter aside, as a Point diffi­cult to be decided, and let us return to the pre­ference due to Arms above Learning, a Subject as yet in Debate, each Party bringing stronger Reasons to make out their Pretensions. Among [Page 475] others, Learning urges, that without it Warfare it self could not subsist; because War, as other things, has its Laws, and is Govern'd by them, and Laws are the Province of Learning and Scho­lars. To this Objection the Soldiers make An­swer, that without them the Laws cannot be maintain'd, for it is by Arms that Common-wealths are defended, Kingdoms supported, Cities secur'd, the High-ways made safe, and the Sea deliver'd from Pyrates. In short, were it not for them, Common-wealths, Kingdoms, Monarchies, Cities, the Roads by Land, and the Waters of the Sea, would be subject to the Ravages and Confusion that attends War while it lasts and is at liberty to make use of its unbounded priviledges and strength. Besides, it is past all Controversie, that what costs dearest, is, and ought most to be va­lu'd. Now for a Man to attain to an eminent de­gree in Learning, costs him time, watching, hun­ger, nakedness, dizziness in the Head, weakness in the Stomach, and other inconveniences, which are the consequences of these, of which I have already in part made mention But the rising gradually to be a good Soldier, is purchas'd at the whole expence of all that is requir'd for Learning, and that in so surpassing a degree, that there is no comparison betwixt them; because he is e­very moment in danger of his Life. To what danger or distress can a Scholar be reduc'd equal to that of a Soldier, who, being Besieg'd in some strong place, and at his post, or upon Guard, in some Ravelin or Bastion, perceives the Enemy carrying on a Mine under him, and yet must up­on no account remove from thence, or shun the danger which threatens him so near? All he can do is to give Advice to his Commander, that he may countermine; and he must stand still fearing [Page 476] and expecting when on a sudden he shall soar to the Clouds without Wings, and be again cast down headlong against his Will. If this danger seem inconsiderable, let us see whether that be not greater when two Galleys shock one another with their Prows, in the midst of the spacious Sea. When they have thus grappl'd, and are clinging together, the Soldier is confin'd to the narrow Beak, being a Board not above two Foot wide; and yet though he sees before him so many Ministers of Death threatning, as there are Pieces of Cannon on the other side pointed against him, and not half a Pike's length from his Body, and being sensible that the first slip of his Feet sends him to the bottom of Neptune's Dominions, still, for all this, inspir'd by Honour, with an un­daunted Heart, he stands a mark to so much Fire, and endeavours to make his way by that nar­row passage into the Enemy's Vessel. But what is most to be admir'd is, that no sooner one falls, where he shall never rise till the end of the World, than another steps into the same place; and if he also drops into the Sea, which lies in wait for him like an Enemy, another, and after him another still fills up the place, without suffering any interval of time to separate their Deaths; a resolution and boldness scarce to be parallel'd in any other Tryals of War. Blessed be those happy Ages that were strangers to the dreadful fury of these devilish Instruments of Artillery, whose In­ventor I am satisfy'd is now in Hell, receiving the reward of his cursed Invention, which is the cause that very often a Cowardly base hand takes away the Life of the bravest Gentleman; and that in the midst of that vigour and resolution which animates and inflames the bold, a chance Bullet (shot perhaps by one that fled, and was frighted [Page 477] at the very flash the mischievous Piece gave, when it went off,) coming, no body knows how, or from whence, in a Moment puts a period to the brave designs, and the life of one, that deserv'd to have surviv'd many Years. This consider'd I could almost say, I am sorry at my Heart for hav­ing taken upon me this Profession of a Knight-Errant, in so detestable an Age; for tho' no Dan­ger daunts me, yet it affects me to think, whether Powder and Lead may not deprive me of the op­portunity of becoming Famous, and making my self known throughout the World, by the strength of my Arm, and dint of my Sword. But let Heav'n order Matters as it pleases, for if I compass my Designs, I shall be so much the more Honour'd, by how much the Dangers I have expos'd my self to, are greater than those the Knights-Errant of former Ages escap'd. All this long preamble Don Quixote made, whilst the Company Supp'd, never minding to eat a mouth­ful, though Sancho Pança had several times advis'd him to Sup, telling him there would be time enough afterwards to say what he thought fit. Those who heard him were afresh mov'd with Compassion, to see a Man, who seem'd in all o­ther respects to have a sound judgment and clear understanding, so absolutely mad and di­stracted, when any mention was made of his cur­sed Knight-Errantry. The Curate told him, he was much in the right, in all he had said for the honour of Arms, and that he, though a Scholar, and a Graduate, was of the same Opinion. Supper being ended, and the Cloath taken away, whilst the Inn-keeper, his Wife, his Daughter, and Ma­ritornes, fitted up Don Quixote's Loft for the Ladies, that they might lie by themselves that Night, Don Ferdinand entreated the Slave to give them an [Page 478] Account of his Life; conscious the Relation could not choose but be very delightful and surprizing, as might be guess'd by his coming with Zoraida. The Slave Answer'd, He would most willingly comply with their Desires, and that he only fear'd the Relation would not give them all the satis­faction he could wish, but that however, rather than disobey, he would do it as well as he could. The Curate and all the Company thank'd him, and made fresh instances to the same Effect. See­ing himself courted by so many, There is no need of entreaties, said he, for what you may com­mand; therefore, continu'd he, give me your Attention, and you shall hear a true Relation, per­haps not to be parallel'd by those fabulous Stories which are compos'd with much Art and Study. This caus'd all the Company to seat themselves, and observe a very strict silence, and then with an agreeable and sedate Voice, he began in this manner.

CHAP. XII. Where the Captive relates his Life and Ad­ventures.

IN the Mountains of Leon my Family had its first Original, and was more kindly dealt with­al by Nature than by Fortune, though my Father might pass for Rich among the Inhabitants of those Parts, who are but poorly provided for; to say truth, he had been so, had he had as much Industry to preserve, as he had Inclination to dis­sipate [Page 479] his Income; but he had been a Soldier, and the Years of his Youth spent in that Employment, had left him in his Old-Age a propensity to spend, under the Name of Liberality. War is a School where the Covetous grow free, and the free Pro­digal: To see a Soldier a Miser, is a kind of Pro­digy which happens but seldom. My Father was far from being one of them; for he pass'd the Bounds of Liberality, and came very near the excesses of Prodigality: A thing which cannot suit well with a marry'd Life, where the Children ought to succeed to the Estate, as well as Name of the Family. We were three of us, all at Man's Estate, and my Father, finding that the only way (as he said) to curb his squandring Inclination, was resolv'd to dispossess himself of that which main­tain'd it, his Estate; without which Alexander him­self must have appear'd poor. He call'd us one day all three to him in his Chamber, and spoke to us in the following manner.

My Sons, to perswade you that I love you, I need only tell you I am your Father, and you my Children; and on the other side, you have reason to think me unkind, considering how careless I am in preserving what should one Day be yours; but to convince you, however, that I have the Bowels of a Parent, I have taken a resolution, which I have well weigh'd and consider'd for many Days. You are all now of an Age to choose the kind of Life you each of you incline to, or at least to enter upon some Employment that may one Day pro­cure you both Honour and Profit: Therefore I design to divide all I have into four Parts, of which I will give three among you, and retain the fourth for my self, to maintain me in my Old Age, as long as it shall please Heaven to continue me in this Life. After that each of you shall have [Page 480] receiv'd his part, I could wish you would follow one of the Employments I shall mention to you, every one as he finds himself inclin'd. There is a Proverb in our vulgar Tongue, which I take to contain a great deal of Truth, as generally those sorts of sayings do; being short Sentences fram'd upon Observation and long Experience. This Proverb runs thus, Either the Church, the Sea, or the Court. As if it should plainly say, that whoever desires to thrive, must follow one of these three; either be a Church-Man, or a Merchant and try his Fortune at Sea, or enter into the Service of his Prince in the Court: For another Proverb says, that King's Chaff is better than other Mens Corn. I say this, because I would have one of you follow his Studies, another I desire should be a Merchant, and the third should serve the King in his Wars; because it is a thing of some difficulty to get an entrance at Court; and though War does not im­mediately procure Riches, yet it seldom fails of giving Honour and Reputation. Within eight days time I will give each of you your Portion, and not wrong you of a farthing of it, as you shall see by Experience. Now therefore tell me if you are resolv'd to follow my Advice about your setling into the World. And turning to me as the Eldest, he bid me Answer first. I told him, that he ought not upon our Account to divide, or lessen his Estate, or way of Living; that we were young Men, and could shift in the World; and at last I concluded, that for my part I would be a Soldier, and serve God and the King in that Honourable Profession. My second Brother made the same regardful Offer, and chose to go to the Indies; resolving to lay out in Goods the share that should be given him here. The youngest, and I believe, the wisest of us all, said he would be [Page 481] a Church-man; and in order to it go to Salamanca, and there finish his Studies. After this, my Father embrac'd us all three, and in a few days perform'd what he had promis'd, and, as I remember, it was three thousand Ducats a piece, which he shar'd among us; for we had an Uncle who bought all the Estate, and paid for it in ready Money, that it might not go out of the Family. A little after, we all took leave of my Father, and at parting I could not forbear thinking it a kind of Inhumanity to leave the old Gentleman in so streight a Con­dition: I prevail'd with him therefore to accept of two thousand of my three, the remainder being sufficient to make up a Soldier's Equipage. My Example work'd upon my other Brothers, and they each of them presented him with a thousand Du­cats; so that my Father remain'd with four thou­sand Ducats in ready Money, and three thousand more in Land, which he chose to keep, and not sell out-right. To be short, we took our last leave of my Father and the Uncle I have mention'd, not without much Grief and Tears on all sides. They particularly recommendeding to us to let them know by all Opportunities our good or ill For­tunes: We promis'd so to do, and having receiv'd the Blessing of our old Father, one of us went strait to Salamanca, the other to Sevill, and I to Alicant, where I was was inform'd of a Genoese Ship, which loaded Wool for Genoa.

This year makes two and twenty since I first left my Father's House, and in all that time, tho' I have writ several Letters, I have not had the least News either of him, or of my Brothers. And now I will relate in few Words my own Adven­tures, in all that course of Years. I took Shipping at Alicant, arriv'd safe and with a good passage at Genova, from thence I went to Milan, where I [Page 482] bought my Equipage, resolving to go and enter my self in the Army in Piedmont; but being come as far as Alexandria de la Paille, I was inform'd that the Great Duke of Alva was passing into Flanders with an Army; this made me alter my first Reso­lution. I follow'd him, and was present at all his Engagements, as well as at the Deaths of the Counts Egmont and Horne; and at last I had a Co­lours under a famous Captain of Guadalajara, whose Name was Diego d' Urbina. Some time after my arrival in Flanders, there came News of the Holy League concluded by Pope Pius V. of happy Me­mory, in Conjunction with Spain, against the common Enemy the Turk, who at that time had taken the Island of Cyprus from the Venetians; which was an unfortunate and lamentable loss to Christendom. It was also certain, that the General of this Holy League was the most Serene Don Juan of Austria, Natural Brother to our good King Don Philip. The great Fame of the Preparations for this War, incited me with a vehement desire of being present at the Engagement which was ex­pected to follow these Preparations; and although I had certain Assurance, and as it were an earnest of my being Advanc'd to be a Captain upon the first vacancy, yet I resolv'd to leave all those ex­pectations, and return, as I did, to Italy. My good Fortune was such, that I arriv'd just about the same time that Don Juan of Austria landed at Genova, in order to go to Naples, and join the Venetian Fleet, as he did at Messina. In short, I was at that great Action of the Battel of Lepanto, being a Cap­tain of Foot, to which post my good Fortune more than my Desert had now advanc'd me; and that Day, which was so happy to all Christendom (be­cause the World was then disabus'd of the Error they had entertain'd, that the Turk was Invincible [Page 483] by Sea;) that Day I say, in which the Pride of the Ottomans was first broke, and which was so happy to all Christians, even to those who dy'd in the Fight, who were more so than those who re­main'd alive and Conquerors, I alone was the un­happy Man; since, instead of a Naval Crown, which I might have hop'd for in the time of the Romans, I found my self that very Night a Slave, with Irons on my Feet, and Manacles on my Hands. The thing happen'd thus: Vehali, King of Algiers, a brave and bold Pyrate, having boarded and taken the Capitana Galley of Malta, in which only three Knights were left alive, and those des­perately wounded, the Galley of John Andrea Doria made haste to Succour them; in this Galley I was Embarqu'd with my Company, and doing my duty in this Occasion, I leap'd into the Enemy's Galley, which getting loose from ours, that intended to board the Algerine, my Soldiers were hindred from following me, and I remain'd alone among a great number of Enemies; whom not being able to re­sist, I was taken, after having receiv'd several Wounds; and as you have heard already, Vehali having escaped with all his Squadron, I found my self his Prisoner; and was the only afflicted Man among so many joyful ones, and the only Captive among so many free; for on that Day above 15000 Christians, who row'd in the Turkish Galleys, ob­tain'd their long wish'd-for Liberty. I was carry'd to Constantinople, where the Grand Signior Selim, made Vehali my Master General of the Sea, he ha­ving behaved himself very well in the Battle, and brought away with him the great Flag of the Or­der of Malta, as a proof of his Valour.

The second year of my Captivity, I was a Slave in the Capitana Galley at Navarrino; and I took notice of the Christians Fault, in letting slip the [Page 484] Opportunity they had of taking the whole Turkish Fleet in that Port; and all the Janifaries and Al­gerine Pirates, did so expect to be attack'd, that they had all in readiness to escape on Shore with­out Fighting, so great was the terror they had of our Fleet; but it pleas'd God to order it other­wise not by any fault of the Christian General, but for the Sins of Christendom, and because it is his Will we should always have some Enemies to Chastize us. Vehali sav'd himself at Modon, which is an Island, not far from Navarrino, and these Landing his Men, fortify'd the Entrance of the Harbour, remaining in safety there till Don Juan was forc'd to return home with his Fleet. In this Expedition, the Galley call'd La Presa, of which Barbarossa's own Son was Captain, was taken by the Admiral Gally of Naples, call'd the Woolf, which was Commanded by that Thunderbolt of War, that Father of the Soldiers, that happy and never conquer'd Captain, Don Alvaro de Baçan, Marquis of Santa Cruz; and I cannot omit the manner of taking this Galley. The Son of Barbarossa was very cruel, and us'd his Slaves with great Inhumanity; they perceiving that the Woolf-Galley got of them in the Chace, all of a sudden laid by their Oars, and seizing on their Commander, as he was walk­ing between them on the Deck, and calling to them to Row hard; they pass'd him on from Hand to Hand to one another, from one end of the Galley to the other, and gave him such Blows in the handing him, that before he got to the Main-Mast, his Soul had left his Body, and was fled to Hell. This, as I said, was the effect of his Cruelty, and their Hatred.

Afrer this, we return'd to Constantinople, and the next Year, which was 1573, it was known how Don Juan of Austria had taken Tunis and its King­dom [Page 485] from the Turks, and given the Possession of it to Muley Hamed, having thereby defeated all the hopes of Reigning of Muley Hamida, one of the cruellest and withal one of the bravest Moors that was in the World. The Grand Signior was trou­bl'd at this loss, and using his wonted Artifices with the Christians, he struck up a Peace with the Venetians, who were much more desirous than he of it.

The year after, which was 1574, he attack'd the Goletta, and the Fort which Don Juan had begun, but not above half finish'd, before Tunis. All this while I was a Galley-Slave, without any hopes of Liberty; at least I could not promise my self to obtain it by way of Ransome; for I was resolv'd not to write my Father the News of my Misfortune. La Goletta and the Fort were both taken after some Resistance; the Turkish Army con­sisting of 75000 Turks in Pay, and above 400000 Moors and Arabs out of all Africa near the Sea; with such Provisions of War of all kinds, and so many Pioneers, that they might have cover'd the Goletta and the Fort with Earth by Handfuls. The Goletta was first taken, though always before repu­ted impregnable; and it was not lost by any fault of its Defenders, who did all that could be ex­pected from them, but because it was found by ex­perience, that it was practicable to make Trenches in that Sandy Soil, which was thought to have Water under it within two Foot, and the Turks digg'd above two Yards before they came at any, by which means filling Sacks with Sand, and lay­ing them on one another, they rais'd them so high, that they commanded from that Fortification the Fort, in which none could be safe, nor shew them­selves upon the Walls. It has been the Opinion of most Men, that we did ill to shut our selves [Page 486] up in the Goletta; and that we ought to have been drawn out to hinder their Landing; but they who say so, talk without Experience, and at a distance, of such things; for if in all there were not above 7000 Men in the Goletta and the Fort, how could so small a Number, though never so brave, take the open Field against such Forces as those of the Enemies? And how is it possible that a Place can avoid being taken which can have no Relief, particularly being besieg'd by such Num­bers, and those in their own Country: But it seem'd to many others, and that is also my Opi­nion, that God Almighty favour'd Spain most par­ticularly, in suffering that sink of Iniquity and Misery, as well as that Spunge and perpetual drain of Treasure to be destroy'd. For infinite Sums of Money were spent there to no purpose, without any other design than to preserve the Memory of one of the Emperor's, Charles the Vth's, Conquests; as if it had been necessary to support the Eternity of his Glory, (which will be Permanent) that those Stones should remain in being. The Fort was likewise lost, but the Turks got it Foot by Foot; for the Soldiers who defended it, sustain'd two and twenty Assaults, and in them kill'd above 25000 of those Barbarians; and when it was taken, of 300 which were left alive, there was not one Man unwounded; a certain sign of the Bravery of the Garrison, and of their Skill in defending Places. There was likewise taken by Composition, a small Fort in the midst of a Lake, which was under the Command of Don John Zanoguerra, a Gentleman of Valencia, and a Soldier of great Renown. Don Pedro Puerto Carrero, General of the Goletta was taken Prisoner, and was so afflicted at the loss of the Place, that he dy'd of Grief by the Way, before he got to Constantinople, whither they were carry­ing [Page 487] him. They took also Prisoner the Commander of the Fort, whose Name was Gabriel Cerbellon, a Milanese, and a great Ingineer, as well as a valiant Soldier. Several Persons of Quality were killed in those two Fortresses, and amongst the rest was Pagan Doria, the Brother of the Famous John An­drea Doria, a Generous and Noble-hearted Gentle­man, as well appear'd by his Liberality to that Brother; and that which made his Death more worthy of Compassion, was, that he receiv'd it from some Arabs, to whom he had committed his Safety after the loss of the Fort, they having pro­mis'd to carry him disguis'd in a Moor's Habit to Tabarea, which is a small Fort held on that Coast by the Genoeses, for the diving for Coral; but they cut off his Head; and brought it to the Turkish General, who made good to them our Spanish Pro­verb, That the Treason pleases, but the Traitors are odious; for he order'd them to be hang'd up immediately, for not having brought him alive. Amongst the Christians which were taken in the Fort, there was one Don Pedro de Aguilar, of some place in Andalusia, and who was an Ensign in the Place; a very brave, and a very ingenious Man, and one who had a rare Talent in Poetry. I men­tion him, because it was his fortune to be a Slave in the same Galley with me, and chain'd to the same Bench. Before we left the Port he made two Sonnets by way of Epitaph for the Goletta and the Fort, which I must beg leave to repeat here, ha­ving learn'd them by Heart, and I believe they will rather divert than tire the Company. When the Captive nam'd Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don Fer­dinand look'd upon his Comrades, and they all smil'd; and when he talk'd of the Sonnets, one of them said, before you go on to repeat the Sonnets, I desire, Sir, you would tell me what became of [Page 488] that Don Pedro d' Aguilar whom you have mention'd. All that I know of him, answer'd the Slave, is, that after having been two years in Constantinople, he made his escape, disguis'd like an Arnaut, and in company of a Greek Spy; but I cannot tell whe­ther he obtain'd his Liberty or no, though I be­lieve he did, because about a year after, I saw the same Greek in Constantinople, but had not an Oppor­tunity to ask him about the Success of his Journey. Then I can tell you, reply'd the Gentleman, That the Don Pedro you speak of is my Brother, and is at present at home, Marry'd, Rich, and has three Children. God be thanked, said the Slave, for the Favours he has bestow'd on him, for in my mind there is no felicity equal to that of recovering ones lost Liberty; and moreover, added the same Gentleman, I can say the Sonnets you mentioned, which my Brother made. Pray say them then re­ply'd the Slave, for I question not but you can repeat them better than I. With all my Heart, answer'd the Gentleman. That upon the Goletta was thus.

CHAP. XIII. The Story of the Captive Continu'd.

I know it's just as you repeat it, said the Cap­tive: Well then, said the Gentleman, I'll give you now that which was made upon the Fort, if I can remember it.

[Page 490]The Sonnets were applauded, and the Captive was pleas'd to hear such good News of his Friend and Companion: After that he pursu'd his Relati­on in these Terms; The Turks order'd the dis­mantling of the Goletta, the Fort being raz'd to their Hand by the Siege; and yet the Mines they made could not blow up the old Walls, which nevertheless were always thought the weakest Part of the Place; but the new Fortifications made by the Ingineer Fratin came easily down. In fine, the Turkish Fleet return'd in Triumph to Constantinople, where not long after my Master Vehali dy'd, whom the Turks us'd to call Vehali Furtare, which in Turkish signifies the Scabby Renegade, as indeed he was; and the Turks give Names among themselves, either from some Virtue or some Defect that is in them; and this happens, because there are but four Fami­lies descended from the Ottoman Family, all the rest, as I have said, take their Names from some Defect of the Body, or some good Quality of the Mind. This scabby Slave was at the Oar in one of the Grand Signior's Gallies for fourteen Years, till he was four and thirty Years old; at which Time he turn'd Renegade, to be reveng'd of a Turk who gave him a Box on the Ear as he was chain'd to the Oar, forsaking his Religion for his Revenge; after which he shew'd so much Valour and Con­duct, that he came to be King of Algiers, and Ad­miral of the Turkish Fleet, which is the third Com­mand in the whole Empire. He was a Calabrian by Birth, and of a mild Disposition towards his Slaves, as also of good Morals to the rest of the World. He had above three thousand Slaves of his own, all which after his Death were divided, as he had order'd by his Will, between the Grand Signior, his Sons, and his Renegades. I fell to the Share of a Venetian Renegade, who was a Cab­bin-boy [Page 491] in a Venetian Ship which was taken by Ve­hali, who lov'd him so that he was one of his fa­vourite Boys; and he came at last to prove one of the cruell'st Renegades that ever was known. His Name was Azanaga, and he obtain'd such Riches as to rise by them to be King of Algiers; and with him I left Constantinople, with some Satisfaction to think at least that I was in a Place so near Spain, not because I could give Advice to any Friend of my Misfortunes, but because I hop'd to try whe­ther I should succeed better in Algiers than I had done in Constantinople, where I had try'd a thou­sand Ways of running away, but could never exe­cute any of them, which I hop'd I should compass better in Algiers, for Hopes never forsook me upon all the Disappointments I met with in the Design of recovering my Liberty. By this Means I kept my self alive, shut up in a Prison or House, which the Turks call a Bagnio, where they keep their Chri­stian Slaves, as well those of the King, as those who belong to private Persons, and also those who are called El Almacen, that is, who belong to the Publick, and are employ'd by the City in Works that belong to it. These Latter do very difficultly obtain their Liberty; for having no particular Master, but belonging to the Publick, they can find no Body to treat with about their Ransom, though they have Money to pay it. The King's Slaves, which are ransomable, are not oblig'd to go out to Works as the others do, except their Ransom stays too long before it comes; for then to hasten it, they make them work, and fetch Wood with the rest, which is no small Labour. I was one of those who were to be ransom'd, for when they knew I had been a Captain, though I told them the Impossibility I was in of being re­deem'd because of my Poverty, yet they put me a­mong [Page 492] the Gentlemen that were to be ransom'd, and to that End they put me on a slight Chain, rather as a Mark of Distinction than to restrain me by it; and so I pass'd my Life in that Bagnio, with several other Gentlemen of Quality, who expected their Ransom; and tho' Hunger and Nakedness might, as it did often, trouble us, yet nothing gave us such Affliction, as to hear and see the excessive Cru­elties with which our Master us'd the other Christi­an Slaves; he would hang one one Day, then im­pale another, cut off the Ears of another, and this upon such slight Occasions, that often the Turks would own that he did it only for the Pleasure of doing it, and because he was naturally an Enemy to Mankind. Only one Spanish Soldier knew how to deal with him, his Name was Saavedra; and because he did such things as will not easily be for­gotten by the Turks, and all to gain his Liberty, his Master never gave him a Blow, nor us'd him ill either in Word or Deed; and yet we were always afraid that the least of his Pranks would make him be impal'd, nay, he himself sometimes was afraid of it too; and if it were not for Fear of taking up too much of our Time, I could tell such Passa­ges of him as would divert the Company much better than the Relation of my Adventures, and cause more Wonder in them. But to go on; I say that the Windows of a very rich Moor's House look'd upon the Court of our Prison; which in­deed, according to the Custom of the Country, were rather Peeping-holes than Windows, and yet they had also Lettices or Jealousies on the Inside. It happen'd one Day, that being upon a kind of Terrace of our Prison, with only three of my Comrades, diverting our selves as well as we could, by trying who could leap farthest in his Chains, all the other Christians being gone out to work; [Page 493] I chanc'd to look up to those Windows, and saw that out of one of them there appear'd a long Cane, and to it was a Bit of Linnen ty'd, and the Cane was mov'd up and down, as if it had ex­pected that some of us should lay hold of it. We all took Notice of it, and one of us went and stood just under it to see if they would let it fall; but just as he came to it the Cane was drawn up, and shak'd too and fro Sideways, as if they had made the same Sign as People do with their Head when they deny. He retir'd upon that, and the same Motion was made with it as before. Another of my Comrades advanc'd, and had the same Suc­cess as the former; the third Man was us'd just as the rest; which I seeing, resolv'd to try the Adventure, and as I came under the Cane it fell at my Feet: Immediately I unty'd the Linnen, with­in which was a Knot, which being open'd, shew'd us about ten Zianins, which is a sort of Gold of base Allay, us'd by the Moors, each of which is worth about two Crowns of our Money. 'Tis not to be much question'd, whether the Discovery were not as pleasant as surprizing; we were in Ad­miration, and I more particularly, not being able to guess from what Part these Favours proceeded; for 'twas apparent that I was more meant than any of my Comrades, since the Cane was let go to me alone when it was refus'd to them. I took my Mo­ney, broke the Cane, and going upon the Terrace saw that a very fine white Hand did open and shut the Window with Haste; by this we imagin'd that some Woman that liv'd in that House had done us the Charity, and to return our Thanks, we bow'd our selves after the Moorish Fashion with our Arms across our Breasts. A little after there appear'd out of the same Window a little Cross made of Cane, which immediately was pull'd in [Page 494] again. This confirm'd us in our Opinion, that some Christian Woman was a Slave in that House, and that it was she that took Pity of us; but the Whiteness of the Hand, and the Richness of the Bracelets upon the Arm, which we had a Glimpse of, seem'd to destroy that Thought again; and then we believ'd it was some Christian Woman turn'd Mahometan, whom their Masters very often marry, and take it for a great good Fortune, for they are more valu'd by them than the Women of the Country. But in all this Guessing we were far enough from finding out the Truth of the Case; however we resolv'd to be very diligent in observing the Window, which was our North-Star. There pass'd above fifteen Days before we saw either the Hand, or Cane, or any other Sign what­soever; though in all that Time we endeavour'd to find out who liv'd in that House, and if there were in it any Christian Woman who was a Re­negade; yet all we could discover amounted to only this, that the House belong'd to one of the chief Moors, a very rich Man call'd Agimorato, who had been Alcayde of the Pata, which is an Office much valu'd among them. But when we least hop'd that our Golden Shower should conti­nue, out of that Window we saw on a sudden the Cane appear again, with another Piece of Lin­nen, and a bigger Knot; and this was just at a Time when the Bagnio was without any other of the Slaves in it. We all try'd our Fortunes as the first Time, and it succeeded accordingly, for the Cane was let go to none but me. I unty'd the Knot, and found in it forty Crowns in Spanish Gold, with a Paper written in Arabick, and at the Top of the Paper was a great Cross. I kiss'd the Cross, took the Crowns, and returning to the Terrace, we all made our Moorish Reverences; the Hand [Page 495] appear'd again, and I having made Signs that I would read the Paper, the Window was shut. We remain'd all overjoy'd and astonish'd at what had happen'd; and were extreme desirous to know the Contents of the Paper; but none of us under­stood Arabick, and it was yet more difficult to find out a proper Interpreter. At last I resolv'd to trust a Renegade of Murcia, who had shew'd me great Proofs of his Kindness. We gave one another mutual Assurances, and on his Side he was oblig'd to keep secret all that I should reveal to him. The Renegades, who have some Thoughts of re­turning one Day to their own Country, use to get Certificates from the Persons of Quality who are Slaves in Barbary; in which they make a sort of an Affidavit, that such an one, a Renegade, is an honest Man, and has always been kind to the Chris­tians, and has a mind to make his Escape on the first Occasion. Some there are who procure these Certificates with an honest Design; but others get them on purpose to make use of them when they go a Pirating on the Christian Shores; for then if they are Shipwreck'd or taken, they shew these Certificates, and say, that thereby may be seen the Intention with which they came in the Turks Com­pany; to wit, to get an Opportunity of returning to Christendom: By this means they escape the first Fury of the Christians, and are Reconcil'd to the Church without having been hurt; afterwards they take their time, and return to Barbary, to be what they were before.

One of these Renegades was my Friend, and he had Certificates from us all, by which we gave him much Commmendation: but if the Moors had catch'd him with those Papers about him, they would have burnt him alive. I knew that not on­ly he understood the Arabic Tongue, but also that [Page 496] he could both speak and write it currently. But yet before I resolv'd to trust him intirely, I bid him read me that Paper which I had found by chance; he opened it, and was a good while look­ing upon it, and construing it to himself. I ask'd him if he understood it; He said yes, very well; and that if I would give him Pen and Ink and Pa­per, he would translate it Word for Word. We furnish'd him with what he desir'd, and he went to work; having finish'd his Translation, he said, all that I have here put into Spanish is Word for Word what is in the Arabick; only observe that where-ever the Paper says Lela Marien, it means our Lady the Virgin Mary. The Contents were thus.

‘When I was a Child, my Father had a Slave, who taught me in my Tongue the Christian Worship, and told me a great many things of Le­la Marien: The Christian Slave dy'd, and I am sure she went not to the Fire, but is with Alla, for I have seen her twice; and she bid me go to the Land of the Christians to see Lela Marien, who had a great Kindness for me. I do not know what is the matter; but though I have seen ma­ny Christians out of this Window, none has ap­pear'd to me so much a Gentleman as thy self. I am very handsome and young, and can carry with me a great deal of Money, and other Riches; consider whether thou can'st bring it to pass that we may escape together, and thou shalt be my Husband in thy own Country, if thou art wil­ling; but if thou art not, 'tis all one, Lela Ma­rien will provide me a Husband. I have writ this, have a Care whom thou givest it to read to, do not trust any Moor, because they are all Treache­rous; and in this I am much perplex'd, and could wish there were not a necessity of trusting any, [Page 497] one; because if my Father should come to know it, he would certainly throw me into a Well, and cover me over with Stones. I will tie a Thread to the Cane, and with that thou may'st fasten thy Answer; and if thou canst not find any one to write in Arabick, make me understand thy meaning by Signs, for Lela Marien will help me to guess it. She and Alla keep thee, as well as this Cross, which I often kiss, as the Christian Slave bid me.’

You may imagine, Gentlemen, that we were in admiration at the Contents of this Paper, and withal o'erjoy'd at them, which we express'd so openly, that the Renegade came to understand that the Paper was not found by chance, but that it was really writ to some one among us, and accordingly he told us his Suspicion, but desir'd us to trust him entirely, and that he wou'd venture his Life with us to procure us our Liberty. Having said this, he pull'd a Crucifix of Metal out of his Bosom, and with many Tears, swore by the God which it represented, and in whom he, though a wicked Sinner, did firmly believe, to be true and faithful to us with all Secresy in what we shou'd impart to him; for he guess'd that by the means of the Woman who had writ that Letter, we might all of us recover our lost Liberty, and he in parti­cular might obtain what he had so long wish'd for, to be receiv'd again into the Bosom of his Mother the Church. The Renegade pronounc'd all this with so many Tears, and such Signs of Repen­tance, that we were all of Opinion to trust him, and tell him the whole Truth of the Business. We shew'd him the little Window out of which the Cane us'd to appear, and he from thence took good notice of the House, in order to inform himself who liv'd in it. We next agreed that it wou'd be necessary to answer the Moorish Ladies Note, so im­mediately [Page 498] the Renegade writ down what I dictated to him; which was exactly as I shall relate, for I have not forgot the least material Circumstance of this Adventure, nor can forget them in all my Life. The Words then were these.

‘The true Alla keep thee, my dear Lady, and that blessed Virgin, which is the true Mother of God, and has inspir'd thee with the design of going to the Land of the Christians. Do thou ask her that she wou'd be pleas'd to make thee understand how thou shalt execute what she has commanded thee, for she is so good that she will do it. On my part, and on that of the Christians who are with me, I offer to do for thee all we are able, even to the hazard of our Lives. Fail not to write to me, and give me notice of thy resolution, for I will aways an­swer thee: The Great Alla having given us a Christian Slave, who can read and write thy Language, as thou may'st perceive by this Let­ter; so that thou may'st without fear give us notice of all thy Intentions. As for what thou say'st, that as soon as thou shalt arrive in the Land of the Christians, thou design'st to be my Wife; I promise thee on the word of a good Christian to take thee for my Wife, and thou may'st know that Christians do perform their Pro­mises better than the Moors. Alla, and his Mo­ther Mary be thy Guard, my dear Lady.’

Having writ and clos'd this Note, I expected two Days till the Bagnio was empty, and then I went upon the Terrace, the ordinary place of our Conversation, to see if the Cane was abroad, and it was not long before it was stirring. As soon as it appear'd I shew'd my Note, that the Thread might be put to the Cane, but I found that was done to my Hand; and the Cane being let down [Page 499] I fastn'd the Note to it. Not long after the Knot was let fall, and I having taken it up, found in it several Pieces of Gold and Silver, above fifty Crowns, which gave us infinite content, and forti­fy'd our Hopes of obtaining at last our Liberty. That Evening our Renegade came to us, and told us he had found out that the Master of that House was the same Moor we had been told of, call'd Agimorato, extremely rich, and who had one only Daughter to inherit all his Estate. That it was the Report of all the City, that she was the handsom­est Maid in all Barbary, having been demanded in Marriage by several Bassas and Viceroys, but that she had always refus'd to Marry; He also told us, that he had learnt she had had a Christian Slave who was dead, all which agreed with the Contents of the Letter. We immediately held a Council with the Renegade, about the manner we might use to carry off the Moorish Lady, and go all toge­ther to Christendom; but all we agreed was to ex­pect the Answer of Zoraida, for that was the Name of the Lady, who now desires to be call'd Mary; as well knowing she cou'd best advise the over­coming all the Difficulties that were in our Way; and after this Resolution the Renegade assur'd us again, that he wou'd lose his Life, or deliver us out of Captivity.

The Bagnio was Four Days together full of Peo­ple, and all that Time the Cane was invisible; but as soon as it return'd to its Solitude, the Cane ap­pear'd, with a Knot much bigger than ordinary: Having unty'd it, I found in it a Letter, and a Hundred Crowns in Gold. The Renegade hap­pen'd that Day to be with us, and we gave him the Letter to read, which he said contain'd these Words.

[Page 500] ‘I cannot tell, Sir, how to contrive that we may go together for Spain; neither has Lela Ma­rien told it me, tho' I have earnestly ask'd it of her: all I can do, is to furnish you out of this Window with a great deal of Riches, buy your Ransom and your Friends with that; and let one of you go to Spain, and buy a Bark there, and come and fetch the rest: As for me, you shall find me in my Father's Garden out of Town, by the Sea-side, not far from Babasso Gate; where I am to pass all the Summer with my Father and my Maids, from which you may take me with­out Fear in the Night time, and carry me to your Bark; but remember thou art to be my Hus­band; and if thou failest in that, I will desire Le­la Marien to Chastise thee. If thou canst not trust one of thy Friends to go for the Bark, pay thy own Ransom, and go thy self; for I trust thou wilt return sooner than another, since thou art a Gentleman and a Christian. Find out my Fa­ther's Garden, and I will take care to watch when the Bagnio is empty, and let thee have more Money. Alla keep my dear Lord.’

These were the Contents of the second Letter we receiv'd. Upon the reading of it, every one of us offer'd to be the Man that should go and buy the Barque, promising to return with all Punctu­ality; but the Renegade oppos'd that Proposition, and said, he would never consent any one of us should obtain his Liberty before the rest, because Experience had taught him, that People once Free do not perform what they promise when Captives; and that often some Slaves of Quality had us'd that Remedy, to send one either to Valencia or Majorca, with Money to buy a Barque, and come back and fetch the rest; but that they never return'd, be­cause the Joy of having obtain'd their Liberty, and [Page 501] the Fear of losing it again, made them forget whatever they had promis'd, and all the Obligati­ons in the World. To confirm which, he related to us a strange Story, which had happen'd in those Parts, as there often does among the Slaves. Af­ter this, he said that all that could be done, was for him to buy a Barque with the Money which should redeem one of us; that he could buy one in Algiers, and pretend to turn Merchant, and deal between Algiers and Tetuan; by which means, he being Master of the Vessel, might easily find out some ways of getting us out of the Bagnio, and ta­king us on Board; and the rather, if the Moorish Lady did what she promis'd, and gave us Money to pay our Ransoms; for being free, we might Em­bark even at Noon-day. That the only Difficulty would be, that the Moors do not permit Renegades to keep any Barques, but great ones fit to Cruize upon Christians; for they believe that a Renegade, particularly a Spaniard, seldom buys a Barque, but with a Design of returning to his own Country. That however, he knew how to obviate that Diffi­culty, by taking a Tagarin Moor for his Partner in the Gains of the Barque and Trade, by which means he should still be Master of her, and then all the rest would be easy. We durst not oppose this Opinion, tho' we had more Inclination every one of us to go to Spain for a Barque, as the Lady had advis'd; but we were afraid that if we contradict­ed him we might be at his Mercy, and he might betray us, and bring our Lives in Danger; parti­cularly, if the Business of Zoraida should be disco­ver'd, for whose Liberty and Life we would have given all ours; so we determin'd to put our selves under the Protection of God and the Renegade. At the same time we answer'd Zoraida, telling her, that we would do all she advis'd, which was very [Page 502] well, and just as if Lela Marien her self had instruc­ted her; and that it now depended on her alone to give us the means of bringing this Design to pass. I promis'd her once more to be her Husband. After this in two Days that the Bagnio happen'd to be empty, she gave us by the means of the Cane two thousand Crowns of Gold; and withal a Let­ter, in which she let us know, that the next Jum [...], which is their Friday, she was to go to her Father's Garden, and that before she went she would give us more Money; and if we had not enough, she would upon our letting her know it, give us what we should think sufficient; for her Father was so rich, he would hardly miss it; and so much the less, because he entrusted her with the Keys of all his Treasure. We presently gave the Renegade Fifteen hundred Crowns to buy the Barque, and I paid my own Ransom with Eight hundred Crowns, which I put into the Hands of a Merchant of Va­lencia, then in Algiers, who made the Bargain with the King, and had me to his House upon Parole, to pay the Money upon the Arrival of the first Barque from Valencia; for if he had paid down the Money immediately, the King might have suspec­ted the Money had been ready, and lain some time in Algiers, and that the Merchant for his own Pro­fit had conceal'd it; and in short, I durst not trust my Master with ready Money, knowing his dis­trustful and malicious Nature. The Thursday pre­ceeding that Friday that Zoraida was to go to the Garden, she let us have a thousand Crowns more; desiring me at the same Time, that if I paid my Ransom, I would find out her Father's Garden, and contrive some way of seeing her there. I an­swer'd in few Words, that I would do as she de­sir'd, and she should only take Care to recommend us to Lela Marien, by those Prayers which the [Page 503] Christian Slave had taught her. Having done this, order was taken to have the Ransom of my three Friends paid also; lest they seeing me at Liberty, and themselves not so, though there was Money to set them free, should be troubl'd in Mind, and give way to the Temptation of the Devil, in doing something that might redound to the Prejudice of Zoraida; for though the Consideration of their Quality ought to have given me Security of their Honour, yet I did not think it proper to run the least hazard in the matter: So they were redeem'd in the same manner, and by the same Merchant that I was, who had the Money before-hand; but we never discover'd to him the Remainder of our In­trigue, as not being willing to run the Danger there was in doing it.

CHAP. XIV. The Adventures of the Captive continued.

OUR Renegade had in a Fortnight's Time bought a very good Barque, capable of car­carrying above thirty People; and to give no Suspicion of any other Design, he undertook a Voyage to a Place upon the Coast call'd Sargel, about thirty Leagues to the Eastward of Algiers towards Oran, where there is a great Trade for dry'd Figs. He made this Voyage two or three Times, in Company with the Tagarin Moor his Part­ner. Those Moors are call'd in Barbary, Tagarins, who were driven out of Aragon; as they call those of Granada, Mudajares; and the same in the King­dom [Page 504] of Fez are call'd Elches, and are the best Soldi­ers that Prince has.

Every Time he pass'd with his Barque along the Coast, he us'd to cast Anchor in a little Bay that was not above two Bow-shot from the Garden where Zoraida expected us; and there he us'd to exercise the Moors that row'd, either in making the Sala, which is a Ceremony among them, or in some other Employment; by which he practis'd in Jest what he was resolv'd to execute in Earnest. So sometimes he would go to the Garden of Zoraida and beg some Fruit, and her Father would give him some though he did not know him. He had a Mind to find an Occasion to speak to Zoraida, and tell her, as he since own'd to me, that he was the Man who by my Order was to carry her to the Land of the Christians, and that she might de­pend upon it; but he could never get an Oppor­tunity of doing it, because the Moorish and Turkish Women never suffer themselves to be seen by any of their own Nation, but by their Husband, or by his or their Father's Command; but as for the Christian Slaves, they let them see them, and that more familiarly than perhaps could be wish'd. I should have been very sorry that the Renegade had seen or spoke to Zoraida, for it must needs have troubl'd her infinitely to see that her Business was trusted to a Renegade; and God Almighty, who govern'd our Design, order'd it so, that the Rene­gade was disappointed. He in the mean Time see­ing how securely, and without Suspicion, he went and came along the Coast, staying where and when he pleas'd by the Way, and that his Partner the Tagarin Moor was of his Mind in all things; that I was at Liberty, and that there wanted no­thing but some Christians to help us to row; he bid me consider whom I intended to carry with me [Page 505] besides those who were ransom'd, and that I should make sure of them for the first Friday, because he had pitch'd on that Day for our Departure. Upon Notice of this Resolution, I spoke to twelve lusty Spaniards, good Rowers, and those who might easi­liest get out of the City. It was a great Fortune that we got so many in such a Conjuncture, because there were above twenty Sail of Rovers gone out, who had taken aboard most of the Slaves fit for the Oar; and we had not had these but that their Ma­ster happen'd to stay at home that Summer, to fi­nish a Galley he was building to cruize with, and was then upon the Stocks. I said no more to them, than only they should steal out of the Town in the Evening upon the next Friday, and stay for me upon the Way that led to Agimorato's Garden. I spoke to every one by himself, and gave each of them Order to say no more to any other Christian they should see, than that they said for me there. Having done this, I had another thing of the greatest Importance to bring to pass, which was to give Zoraida Notice of our Design, and how far we had carry'd it; that she might be ready at a short Warning, and not be surpriz'd if we came on the House on a Sudden, and even before she could think that the Christian Barque could be come. This made me resolve to go to the Garden, to try if it were possible to speak to her: So one Day, upon Pretence of gathering a few Herbs, I entred the Garden, and the first Person I met was her Father, who spoke to me in the Language us'd all over the Turkish Dominions, which is a Mix­ture of all the Christian and Moorish Languages, by which we understand one another from Constantino­ple to Algier, and ask'd me what I look'd for in his Garden, and who I belong'd to? I told him I was a Slave of Arnaute Mami, (this Man I knew was [Page 506] his intimate Friend) and that I wanted a few Herbs to make up a Sallad. He then ask'd me if I were a Man to be redeem'd or no, and how much my Master ask'd for me? During these Questions the beautiful Zoraida came out of a Garden-house hard by, having descry'd me a good while before; and as the Moorish Women make no Difficulty of shew­ing themselves to the Christian Slaves, she drew near without Scruple to the Place where her Fa­ther and I were talking; neither did her Father shew any Dislike of her coming, but call'd to her to come nearer. It would be hard for me to ex­press here the wonderful Surprize and Astonish­ment that the Beauty, the rich Dress, and the charming Air of my beloved Zoraida put me in: She was all bedeck'd with Pearls, which hung thick upon her Head and about her Neck and Arms. Her Feet and Legs were naked after the Custom of that Country, and she had upon them a kind of Bracelet of Gold, and set with such rich Diamonds, that her Father valu'd them, as she since told me, at ten thousand Pistoles a Pair, and those upon her Wrists were of the same Value. The Pearls were of the best Sort, for the Moorish Women delight much in them, and have more Pearls of all Sorts than any Nation. Her Father was reputed to have the finest in Algiers, and to be worth besides above two hundred thousand Spanish Crowns; of all which the Lady you here see was then Mistress, but now is only so of me. What she yet retains of Beauty in all her Sufferings, may well help you to guess at her wonderful Appearance in the Midst of all her Prosperity. The Handsomness of most Ladies has Days and Times, and is more or less according to Accidents or Passions, which naturally raise or di­minish the Lustre of it, and sometimes quite extin­guish it. All that I can say is, that at that Time [Page 507] she appear'd to me the most ravishing Object I had ever seen; to which, adding the Obligations I had to her, she pass'd with me for a Goddess from Hea­ven, descended upon Earth for my Relief and Sa­tisfaction. As she drew near, her Father told her in his Country Language that I was a Slave of his Friend Arnaute Mami, and came to pick a Sallad in his Garden. She presently took the Hint, and ask'd me in Lingua Franca whether I was a Gentleman, and if I was, why I did not ransom my self. I told her I was already ransom'd, and that by the Price she might guess the Value my Master set upon me, since he had bought me for 1500 Pieces of Eight: To which she reply'd, if thou had'st been my Fa­ther's Slave I would not have let him part with thee for twice as much; for, said she, you Christi­ans never speak Truth in any thing you say, and make your selves poor to deceive the Moors. That may be, Madam, said I, but in truth I have dealt by my Master, and do intend to deal by all those I shall have to deal with, sincerely and honoura­bly. And when dost thou go home, said she? To morrow, Madam, said I, for here is a French Barque that Sails to Morrow, and I intend not to lose that Opportunity. Is it not better, reply'd Zo­raida, to stay till there come some Spanish Barque, and go with them, and not with the French, who, I am told, are no Friends of yours? No, said I, yet if the report of a Spanish Barque's coming should prove true, I would perhaps stay for it, though 'tis more certain to take the Opportunity of the French; and besides, the desire I have of be­ing at home, and with those Persons I love, will hardly let me wait for a better conveniency. With­out doubt, said Zoraida, thou art Marry'd in Spain, and impatient to be with thy Wife. I am not, said I, Marry'd, but I have given my Word to a Lady [Page 508] to be so as soon as I can reach my own Country. And is the Lady handsome that has your Promises said Zoraida? She is so handsome, said I, that to describe her rightly, and tell truth, I can only say she is like you. At this her Father laugh'd hear­tily, and said, thou art much to be pitied if she be like my Daughter, who is the greatest Beauty of all this Kingdom: Look upon her well, and thou wilt say I speak Truth. Zoraida's Father was our Interpreter for the most of what we talk'd, for though she understood the Lingua Franca, yet she was not us'd to speak it, and so explain'd her self more by Signs than Words. While we were in this Conversation there came a Moor running ha­stily, and cry'd aloud that four Turks had leap'd over the Fence of the Garden, and were gather­ing the Fruit though it was not ripe. The old Man started at that, and so did Zoraida, for the Moors do naturally stand in great Awe of the Turks, particularly of the Soldiers, who are so insolent on their Side, that they treat the Moors as if they were their Slaves. This made the Father bid his Daughter go home, and shut her self up close, whilst, said he, I go and talk with those Dogs; and for thee, Christian, gather the Herbs thou want'st, and go thy ways in Peace, and God con­duct thee safe to thy own Country. I bow'd to him, and he left me with Zoraida to go and find out the Turks: She made also as if she were going away, as her Father had bid her, but she was no sooner hid from his Sight by the Trees of the Gar­den, but she turn'd towards me with her Eyes full of Tears, and said in her Language, Amexi Christi­ano Amexi, which is, Thou are going away, Chri­stian, thou are going: To which I answer'd, Yes, Madam, I am, but by no Means without you; you may expect me the first Friday, and be not sur­priz'd, [Page 509] for we will most certainly go to the Land of the Christians. I said this so passionately, that she understood me; and throwing one of her Arms about my Neck, she began to walk softly and with trembling towards the House It pleas'd Fortune, that as we were in this Posture walking together, (which might have prov'd very unlucky to us) we met Agimorato coming back from the Turks, and we perceiv'd he had seen us as we were; but Zo­raida, very readily and discreetly, was so far from taking away her Arm from about my Neck, that drawing still nearer to me, she lean'd her Head up­on my Breast, and letting her Knees give Way, was in the Posture of one that swoons; I at the same Time made as if I had much ado to bear her up against my Will. Her Father came hastily to me, and seeing his Daughter in this Condition, ask'd her what was the Matter? But she not answering readily, he presently said, Without Doubt these Turks have frighted her, and she faints away; at which he took her in his Arms. She as it were coming to her self, fetch'd a deep Sigh, and with her Eyes not yet dry'd from Tears, she said, A­mexi Christiano Amexi, Be gone, Christian, be gone; to which her Father reply'd, 'Tis no Matter, Child, whether he go or no, he has done thee no Hurt, and the Turks are already gone away. 'Tis they who frighted her, Sir, said I; but since she desires I shou'd be gone, I'll come another Time for my Sallad, by your Leave; for my Master says the Herbs of your Garden are the best of any he can have. Thou may'st have what, and when thou wilt, said the Father; for my Daughter does not think the Christians troublesome, she only wish'd the Turks away, and by Mistake bid thee be gone too, or put thee in Mind to gather thy Herbs. With this I immediately took Leave of [Page 510] 'em both, and Zoraida shewing great Trouble in her Looks went with her Father. I in the mean Time, upon Pretence of gathering my Herbs here and there, walk'd all over the Garden, observing exactly all the Places of coming in and going out, and every Corner fit for my Purpose, as well as what Strength there was in the House, with all other Conveniences to facilitate our Business. Hav­ing done this I went my ways, and gave an exact Account of all that had happen'd to the Renegade and the rest of my Friends, longing earnestly for the Time in which I might pro­mise my self my dear Zoraida's Company without any Fear of Disturbance. At last that happy Hour came, and we had all the good Success we cou'd promise our selves of a Design so well laid; for the Friday after my Discourse with Zoraida, to­wards the Evening we came to an Anchor with our Bark, almost over against the place where my lovely Mistress liv'd; the Christians who were to be employ'd at the Oar, were already at the Rendezvous, and hid up and down there­abouts. They were all in expectation of my coming, and very desirous to seize the Bark which they saw before their Eyes, for they did not know our agreement with the Renegade, but thought they were by main force to gain their conveyance and their Liberty, by killing the Moors on board. As soon as I and my Friends appear'd, all the rest came from their hiding places to us. By this time the City-Gates were shut, and no Soul ap­pear'd in all the Country near us. When we were all together, it was a question whether we shou'd first fetch Zoraida, or make our selves Masters of those few Moors in the Bark. As we were in this consultation, the Renegade came to us, and asking what we meant to stand idle, told us his Moors were [Page 511] all gone to rest, and most of them asleep. We told him our difficulty, and he immediately said, that the most important thing was to secure the Bark, which might easily be done, and without danger, and then me might go for Zoraida.

We were all of his mind, and so without more ado, he march'd in the Head of us to the Bark, and leaping into it, he first drew a Scimitar, and cry'd aloud in the Moorish Language, let not a Man of you stir, except he means it shou'd cost him his Life; and while he said this, all the other Christians were got on board; the Moors, who are naturally timorous, hearing the Master use this Language, were frighted, and without any re­sistance suffer'd themselves to be Manacl'd, which was done with great expedition by the Christians, who told them at the same time, that if they made the least noise, they would immediately cut their Throats: This being done, and half of our number left to guard them; the remainder with the Renegade, went to the Garden of Agimorato; and our good Fortune was such, that coming to force the Gate, we found it open with so much facility as if it had not been shut at all. So we march'd on with great silence to the House, with­out being perceiv'd by any body. The lovely Zoraida, who was at the Window, ask'd softly, upon hearing us tread, whether we were Nizarani, that is, Christians? I answer'd, Yes; and desir'd her to come down. As soon as she knew my voice, she staid not a Minute; but, without saying a Word, came down, and open'd the door, ap­pearing to us all like a Goddess, her Beauty and the richness of her Dress not being to be describ'd. As soon as I saw her, I seiz'd her by one hand, which I kiss'd, the Renegade did the same, and then my Friends; the rest of the company fol­low'd [Page 510] [...] [Page 511] [...] [Page 512] the same Ceremony; so that we all paid her a kind of homage for our Liberty. The Renegade askt her in Morisco whether her Father were in the Garden? She said Yes, and that he was asleep. Then, said he, we must wake him, and take him with us, as also all that's valuable in the House: No, no, said Zoraida, my Father must not be touch'd, and in the House there is nothing so rich as what I shall carry with me, which is enough to make you all rich and content. Having said this, she stept into the House, bid us be quiet, and she wou'd soon return. I askt the Renegade what had passed between them, and he told me what he had said; to which I reply'd, that by no means any thing was to be done otherwise than Zoraida shou'd please. She was already coming back with a small Trunk so full of Gold, that she cou'd hardly carry it: When, to our great Mis-fortunes, while this was doing her Father awak'd; and having heard some noise in the Garden, open'd a Window and look out: Having perceiv'd that there were Christians in it, he began to cry out in Arabick, Thieves, Thieves, Christians, Christi­ans. These Cries of his put us all into a terrible disorder and fear; but the Renegade seeing our danger, and how much it imported us to accom­plish our Enterpize before we were perceiv'd, he ran up to the place where Agimorato was, and took with him some of our Company; for I durst by no means leave Zoraida, who had swoon'd away in my Arms; those who went up bestirr'd themselves so well, that they brought down Agimorato with his hands ty'd behind him, and his Mouth stopt with a Cloath, which hindred him from so much as speaking a Word; and threatning him besides, that if he made the least attempt to speak, it should cost him his Life. When his Daughter, who was [Page 513] come to her self, saw him, she cover'd her Eyes to avoid the sight, and her Father remain'd the more astonish'd, for he knew not how willingly she had put her self into our hands. Diligence on our side being the chief thing requir'd, we us'd it so as we got to our Barque, where our Men began to be in pain for us, as fearing we had met with some ill Accident: We got on board about two hours after 'twas dark, where the first thing we did was to unty the hands of Zoraida's Father, and to unstop his Mouth, but still with the same threatnings of the Renegade, in case he made any noise. When he saw his Daughter there he began to sigh most pas­sionately, and more when he saw me embrace her with tenderness, and that she without any resistance or strugling seem'd to endure it; he for all this was silent, for fear the threatnings of the Renegade should be put in Execution. Zoraida seeing us aboard, and that we were ready to handle our Oars to be gone, she bid the Renegade tell me, she desir'd I wou'd set her Father and the other Moors our Prisoners on shore; for else she would throw her self into the Sea, rather than see a Fa­ther, who had us'd her so tenderly, be carry'd away Captive for hersake before her Eyes. The Renegade told me what she said, to which I a­greed; but the Renegade was of another Opini­on; saying, that if we set them on shore there, they would raise the Country, and give the A­larm to the City, by which some light Frigates might be dispatch'd in quest of us, and getting between us and the Sea, it would be impossible for us to make our Escape; and that all that could be done, was to set them at liberty in the first Christian Land we could reach. This seem­ed so reasonable to us all, that Zoraida her self being inform'd of the Motives we had not to O­bey [Page 514] her at present, agreed to it. Immediately with great silence and content we began to ply our Oars, recommending our selves to Providence with all our hearts, and endeavour'd to make for Majorca, which is the nearest Christian Land; but the North wind rising a little, and the Sea with it, we could not hold that Course, but were forc'd to drive along-shore towards Oran, not without great fear of being discover'd from Sargel, upon the Coast, about thirty Leagues from Algier [...]. We were likewise apprehensive of meeting some of those Galliots which come from Tetuan with Merchandize. Though, to say Truth, we did not so much fear these last; for except it were a cruizing Galliot, we all of us wish'd to meet one well loaden with Merchandize, for then we might so get a better Vessel to transport us in. Zoraida had her Head hid between my Hands, that she might not see her Father, and I could hear her call upon Lela Marien to help us. By that time we had got about 30 Miles the Day broke, and we found our selves within a Mile of the Shore, which appear'd to us a Desart Solitary Place, but yet we row'd hard to get off to Sea, for fear of being discover'd by some body. When we were got about two Leagues out to Sea, we propos'd to take turns in Rowing, that some might refresh them­selves; but the Men at the Oar said it was not time yet to rest, and that they could eat and row too if those who did not row would assist them, and give them Meat and Drink; this we did, and a little while after the Wind rising at large from Sea, we set Sail for Oran, not being able to hold any other Course. We made above eight Miles an Hour, being in no fear of any thing but meeting some Cruizers. We gave Victuals to our Moorish Prisoners, and the Renegade comforted [Page 515] them, and told them they were not Slaves, but that they should be set at liberty upon the first Opportunity. The same thing was said to the Father of Zoraida; who answer'd, I might expect from your Courtesie other things perhaps, O Chri­stians, but that you should give me my Liberty I am not simple enough to believe; for you ne­ver would have run the hazard of taking it from me, if you intend to restore it so easily; particu­larly since you know who I am, and what you may get for my Ransom, which if you will but name, I will from this moment offer you all that you can desire for me, and for that unfortunate Daughter of mine, or for her alone, since she is the better part of me. When he had said this, he burst out into Tears so violently, that Zoraida could not forbear looking up at him, and indeed he mov'd Compassion in us all, but in her particu­larly; insomuch, as starting from my Arms, she flew to her Father's, and putting her head to his, they began again so passionate and tender a Scene, that most of us could not forbear accompanying their Grief with our Tears; but her Father see­ing her so richly Dress'd, and so many Jewels a­bout her, said to her in his Language, What is the meaning of this, Daughter; for last night be­fore this terrible misfortune befell us, thou wert in thy ordinary Dress; and now, without scarce having had the time to put on such things, I see thee adorn'd with all the fineries that I could give thee, if we were at Liberty and designed to be Merry? This gives me more Wonder and Trouble than even our sad Misfortune; therefore answer me. The Renegade interpreted all that the Moor said, and we saw that Zoraida answer'd not one Word; but on a Sudden, he spying the little Casket in which she was us'd to put her Jewels, [Page 516] which he thought had been left in Algiers, remain'd yet more astonish'd, and ask'd her how that Trunk could come into our hands, and what was in it? to which the Renegade, without expecting Zoraida's Answer, reply'd, Do not trouble thy self to ask thy Daughter so many Questions, for with one Word I can satisfy them all. Know then that she is a Christian, and 'tis she that has filled off our Chains, and given us Liberty; she is with us by her own consent, and I hope well pleas'd, as People should be, who come from Darkness to Light, and from Death to Life. Is this true, Daughter, said the Moor? It is so, reply'd Zoraida. How then, said the Old Man, art thou really a Christian, and art thou she that has put thy Father into the power of his Enemies? to which Zoraida reply'd, I am she that is a Christian, but not she that has brought thee into this Condition; for my design never was to injure my Father, but only to do my self good, And what good hast thou done thy self, said the Moor? Ask that of Lela Marien, reply'd Zoraida, for she can tell thee best. The Old Man had no sooner heard this, but he threw himself with incre­dible Fury into the Sea, and without Doubt he had been drown'd in it, had not his Garments, which were somewhat large, kept him some time above Water. Zoraida cry'd out to us to help him, which we all did so readily, that we pull'd him out by his Vest, but half drown'd, and without any feeling. This so troubl'd Zoraida, that she threw her self up­on her Father, and began to lament and take on as if her Father had been really dead. We turn'd him on his Belly, and by the much Water that came out of him he recover'd a little in about two hours time. The Wind in the mean while was come about and forc'd us ashore, so that we were oblig'd to ply our Oars not to be driven upon the Land. [Page 517] It was our Fortune that we got into a small Bay, which is made by a Promontory, call'd the Cape of the Caba Rumia, which in our Tongue is the Cape of the wicked Christian Woman; and it is a Tradition a­mong the Moors, that there lies buried Caba the Daugh­ter of Count Julian, who was the cause of the loss of Spain; and they think it Ominous to be forc'd into that Bay, for they never go in otherwise than by Necessity; but to us it was no unlucky Harbour, but a safe Retreat, considering how high the Sea went by this time. We posted our Centries on Shore, but kept our Oars ready to be ply'd upon occasion, taking in the mean time some refreshment of what the Renegade had provided, praying heartily to God and the Virgin Mary, to protect us, and help us to bring our design to a happy con­clusion. Here at the desire of Zoraida we resolv'd to set her Father on Shore, with all the other Moors, whom we kept fast ty'd; for she had not Courage, nor could her tender Heart suffer any longer, to see her Father and her Country-men ill us'd before her Eyes; but we did not think to do it before we were just ready to depart, and then they could not much hurt us, the Place being a Solitary one, and no Habitations near it. Our Prayers were not in vain, the Wind fell, and the Sea became Calm, in­viting us thereby to pursue our intended Voyage: We unty'd our Prisoners, and set them on Shore one by one, which they were mightily astonish'd at: When we came to put Zoraida's Father on Shore, who by this time was come to himself, he said, Why do you think Christians, that this wicked Woman desires I should be set at Liberty; do you think it is for any Pity she takes of me? No certainly, but it is because she is not able to bear my presence which hinders the prosecution of her ill Desires: I wou'd not have you think nei­ther [Page 518] that she has embrac'd your Religion, because she knows the difference between yours and ours, but because she has heard that she may live more loosely in your Country than at Home: And then turning himself to Zoraida, while I and another held him fast by the Arms, that he might com­mit no Extravagance, he said, O infamous and blind young Woman, where art thou going in the power of these Dogs our natural Enemies? curs'd be the Hour in which I begot thee, and the Care and Affection with which I bred thee. But I, seeing he was not like to make an end of his Exclamations soon, made haste to set him on Shore, from whence he continu'd to give us his Curses and Complaints; begging on his Knees of Mah [...] ­met to beg of God Almighty to confound and de­stroy us; and when, being under Sail, we cou'd no longer hear him, we saw his Actions, which were to tear his Hair and his Beard, and roll himself upon the Ground; but he once strain'd his Voice so high, that we heard what he said, which was, Come back, my dear Daughter, for I forgive thee all; Let those Men have the Trea­sure which is already in their Possession, and do thou return to comfort thy disconsolate Father, who must else lose his Life in these Sandy De­sarts. All this Zoraida heard, and shed abundance of Tears, but cou'd answer nothing, but beg that Lela Marien, who had made her a Christian, wou'd comfort him. God knows, said she, I cou'd not avoid doing what I have done, and that these Christians are not oblig'd to me, for I cou'd not be at rest till I had done this, which to thee, dear Father, seems so ill a thing. All this she said, when we were got so far out of his hearing, that we cou'd scarce see him. So I comforted Zoraida as well as I cou'd, and we all minded our Voyage. [Page 519] The Wind was now so right for our purpose, that we made no doubt of being the next Morning upon the Spanish Shore; but as it seldom happens, that any Felicity comes so pure as not to be tem­per'd and allay'd by some mixture of Sorrow; either our ill Fortune, or the Moor's Curses had such an effect (for a Father's Curses are to be dreaded, let the Father be what he will,) that about Mid­night, when we were under full Sail, with our Oars laid by, we saw by the light of the Moon hard by us a round Vessel, with all her Sails out, coming a-head of us, which she did so close to us, that we were forc'd to strike our Sail not to run foul of her; and the Vessel likewise seem'd to en­deavour to let us go by; they had come so near us, to ask from whence we came, and whither we were going? But doing it in French, the Re­negade forbid us to answer, saying, Without doubt these are French Pirates, to whom every thing is Prize. This made us all be silent; and as we sail'd on, they being under the Wind, let fly two Guns, both as it appear'd, with Chain-shot, for one brought our Mast by the Board, and the other went through us, without killing any Body; but we, perceiving we were sinking, call'd to them to come and take us, for we were going to be drown'd; they then struck their own Sails, and putting out their Boat, there came about a dozen French on Board us, all well arm'd, and their Matches lighted. When they were close to us, seeing we were but few, they took us aboard their Boat, saying, that this had happen'd to us for not answering their Questions. The Rene­gade had time to take the little Coffer or Trunk, full of Zoraida's Treasure, and heave it over-board, without being perceiv'd by any Body, When we were on board their Vessel, after having learnt [Page 520] from us all they cou'd, they began to strip us, as if we had been their mortal Enemies: They plun­der'd Zoraida of all the Jewels and Bracelets she had on her Hands and Feet; and that did not so much trouble me, as the apprehension I was in for that rich Jewel of her Chastity, which she valu'd above all the rest. But that sort of People seldom have any desires above the ordinary gains of Riches, which they saw in abundance before their Eyes; and their Covetousness was so sharpen'd by it, that even our Slaves Habits tempted them. They con­sulted what to do with us; and some were of opinion to throw us over-board, wrapt up in a Sail, because they intended to put into some of the Spanish Ports, under the notion of being of Britany; and if they carry'd us with them, they might be punish'd, and their Roguery come to light: But the Captain, who thought himself rich with Zo­raida's Plunder, said he wou'd not touch in any Port of Spain, but make his way through the Streights by Night, or as he cou'd, for Rochel, from whence he came. This being resolv'd, they found out the expedient of giving us their Long-boat, and all we might want of Provision for our short Navigation. As soon as it was Day, and that we descry'd the Spanish Shore, (at which sight, so de­sirable a thing is Liberty, all our Miseries vanish'd from our Thoughts in a Moment,) they began to prepare things, and about Noon they put us on Board, giving us two Barrels of Water, and a small quantity of Bisket; and the Captain, touch'd with some remorse for the lovely Zoraida, gave her at parting about 40 Crowns in Gold, and would not suffer his Soldiers to take from her those very Cloaths which now she has on. We went aboard, shew­ing our selves rather thankful than complaining. They got out to Sea, making for the Streights, and [Page 521] we having the Land before us for our North Star, ply'd our Oars, so that about Sun-set we were near enough to have Landed before it was quite dark; but considering the Moon was hid in Clouds, and the Heavens were growing Dark, and we ig­norant of the Shore, we did not think it safe to venture on it, tho' many among us were so desi­rous of Liberty, and to be out of all Danger, that they wou'd have landed, tho' on a desart Rock; and by that means at least we might avoid all little Barks of the Pyrates of the Barbary Coast, such as those of Tetuan, who come from home when 'tis dark, and by Morning are early upon the Spanish Coast; where they often make a Prize, and go home to Bed the same Day. But the other opinion prevail'd, which was to Row gently on, and if the Sea and Shore gave leave, to Land quietly where we cou'd. We did accordingly, and about Midnight we came under a great Hill, which had a sandy Shore, convenient enough for our Land­ing. Here we run our Boat in as far as we cou'd; and being got on Land, we all kissed it for joy, and thank'd God with Tears for our Deliverance. This done, we took out the little Provision we had left, and climb'd up the Mountain, thinking our selves more in surety, for we could hardly per­swade our selves, nor believe that the Land we were upon was the Christian Shore. We thought the Day long a coming, and then we got to the top of the Hill, to see if we could discover any Habitations; but we could no where descry either House or Person, or Path. We resolv'd however to go further in, as thinking we could not miss at last of some Body to inform us where we were; that which troubl'd me most was, to see my poor Zoraida go on Foot among the sharp Rocks, and I would sometimes have carry'd her on my Should­ers; [Page 522] but she was as much concern'd at the pains I took, as she could be at what she endur'd; so leaning on me, she went on with much patience and content. When we had gone about a quarter of a League we heard the sound of a little Pipe, which we took to be a certain sign of some Flock near us; and looking well about, we perceiv'd at last at the foot of a Cork-Tree a young Shepherd, who was cutting a Stick with his Knife with great Attention and Repose. We call'd to him, and he having look'd up, ran away as hard as he could. It seems, as we afterwards heard, the first he saw were the Renegade and Zoraida, who being in the Moorish Dress, he thought all the Moors in Bar­bary were upon him; and running into the Wood, cry'd all the way as loud he could, Moors, Moors, Arm, Arm, the Moors are Landed. We hearing this out-cry, did not well know what to do? But considering that the Shepherd's out-cries could on­ly raise the Country, and that the Horse-guard of the Coast would be upon us, we agreed that the Renegade should pull off his Turkish Habit, and should put on a Slave's Coat, which one of us lent him, though he that lent it him, remain'd in his Shirt. Thus, recommending our selves to God, we went on by the same way that the Shepherd ran, still expecting when the Horse would come upon us; and we were not deceiv'd, for in less than two Hours, as we came down the Hills into a Plain, we discover'd about fifty Horse coming upon a half Gallop towards us; when we saw that, we stood still, expecting of them; when they came up, and instead of so many Moors, saw so many poor Christian Captives they were asto­nish'd, one of them ask'd us if we were the oc­casion that a young Shepherd had given the A­larm to the Country? Yes, said I, and upon that [Page 523] began to tell him who we were, and whence we came; but one of our Company knew the Horse­man that had ask'd us the Question, and without letting me go on said, God be prais'd, Gentlemen, for bringing us to so good a part of the Country, for if I mistake not, we are near the Velez de Ma­laga, and if the many Years of my Captivity have not taken my Memory from me too, I think, that you, Sir, who ask us these Questions, are my Uncle Don Pedro Bustamante. The Christian Slave had hardly said this, but the Gentleman lighting from his Horse, came hastily to embrace the young Slave, saying dear Nephew, my Joy, my Life, I know thee, and have often lamented thy Loss, with thy dear Mother and thy other Rela­tions, whom thou wilt yet find alive. God has preserv'd them, that they may have the pleasure of seeing thee. We had heard thou were in Al­giers, and by what I see of thy Dress, and that of all this Company, you must all have had some Miraculous Deliverance. It is so, reply'd the young Man, and we shall have time enough now to tell all our Adventures. The rest of the Horse­men hearing we were Christians escap'd from Slavery, lighted likewise from their Horses, offer­ing them to us to carry us to the Town of Velez de Malaga, which was about a League and a half off. Some of them went where we had left our Boat, and got it into the Port. We got behind some of them, and Zoraida behind the Gentleman, Uncle to our Captive. All the People, who had already heard something of our Adventure, came out to meet us; they did not wonder to see Captives at Liberty, nor Moors Prisoners; for in all that Coast they are us'd to it; but they were astonish'd at the Beauty of Zoraida, which at that Instant seem'd to be in its point of Perfection; for, as [Page 524] well with the agitation of travelling, as with the joy of being safe in Christendom, without the terrible thought of being re-taken, she had such a beautiful Colour in her Countenance, that were it not for fear of being too partial, I durst say there was not a more beautiful Creature in the World, at least that I had seen. We went straight to the Church, to thank God for his great Mercy to us; and as we came into it, and that Zoraida had look'd upon the Pictures, she said there were several Faces there that were like Lela Marien's; we told her they were her Pictures, and the Re­negade explain'd to her as well as he could the Story of them, that she might adore them, as if in reality each of them had been the true Lela Marien, who had spoke to her; and she, who has a good and clear Understanding, comprehended im­mediately all that was said about the Pictures and Images. After this, we were dispers'd, and lodg'd in different Houses of the Town, but the young Christian Slave of Velez carry'd me, Zoraida, and the Renegade to his Father's House, where we were Accommodated pretty well, according to their Fortune, and us'd with as much kindness as their own Son. After six Days stay at Velez, the Renegade having made Proofs of his Honesty, went to Grana­da, there to be receiv'd by the holy Inquisition into the Bosom of the Church. Zoraida and I remained without other help than the forty Crowns which the Pirate gave her, with which I bought this Ass on which she rides; and hitherto have been to her a Father and a Friend, but not a Husband: We go with an Intention of seeing whether my Father be alive, or any of my Brothers has had better Fortune than I; tho' since it has pleas'd Heaven to give me Zoraida, and make me her Partner, I reckon no better Fortune could befall me. The Patience [Page 525] with which she bears the inconvenience of Pover­ty, the desire she shews of being made a Christian, do give me Subject of continual Admiration, and oblige me to serve and love her all the Days of my Life. I confess, the expectation of being Hers is not a little allay'd with the uncertainties of know­ing whether I shall find in my Country any one to receive us, or a Corner to pass my Life with her; and perhaps Time will have so alter'd the Affairs of our Family, that I shall not find any Body that will know me, if my Father and Brothers are Dead.

This is, Gentlemen, the sum of my Adventures, which if it has any thing entertaining, you are best Judges. I wish I had told them more com­pendiously; and yet, I assure you, the fear of being tedious has made me cut short many Cir­cumstances of my Story.

CHAP. XV. An Account of what happen'd afterwards in the Inn, with several other Occurrences worth Notice.

HERE the Stranger ended his Story, and Don Ferdinand making him a Compliment in the behalf of the whole Company, Truly, Captain, said he, the wonderful and surprizing turns of your Fortune are not only entertaining, but the pleasing and graceful manner of your Relation is as ex­traordinary as the Adventures themselves; we are all bound to pay you our Acknowledgements; and [Page 526] I believe we could be delighted with a second re­cital, though 'twere to last till to Morrow, provi­ded it were made by you. Cardenio and the rest of the Company joyn'd with him in offering their utmost Service in the re-establishment of his For­tune, and that with so much sincerity and earnest­ness, that the Captain had reason to be satisfied of their Affection. Don Ferdinand particularly pro­pos'd to engage the Marquess his Brother to stand God-father to Zoraida, if he would return with him; and farther, promis'd to provide him with all things necessary to support his Figure and Qua­lity in Town; but the Captain making them a very handsome Compliment for their obliging Favours, excus'd himself from accepting those kind offers at that time. By this time it grew to­wards the dark of the Evening, when a Coach stopp'd at the Inn, and with it some Horse-men, who ask'd for a Lodging. The Hostess answer'd, that they were as full as they could pack. Were you ten times fuller, answer'd one of the Horse­men, here must be room made for my Lord Judge, who is in this Coach. The Hostess hearing this was very much concern'd; said she, as ill luck will have it, we have not one Bed empty in the House; but if his Lordship brings a Bed with him, as perhaps he may, he shall command my House with all my Heart, and I and my Husband will quit our own Chamber to serve him; do so then, said the Man: And by this time a Gentle­man alighted from the Coach, easily distinguisha­ble for a Man of Dignity and Office by his long Gown and great Sleeves. He led a young Lady by the Hand, about sixteen Years of Age, dress'd in a riding Suit; her Beauty and charming Air at­tracted the Eyes of every Body with Admiration, and had not the other Ladies been present, any [Page 527] one might have thought it difficult to have match'd her outward Graces.

Don Quixote seeing them come near the Door. Sir, said he, you may enter undismay'd, and re­fresh your self in this Castle, which tho' little, and indifferently provided, must nevertheless al­low room, and afford accommodation to Arms and Learning, and more especially to Arms and Learning, that like yours, bring Beauty for their Guide and Conductor. For certainly at the ap­proach of this lovely Damsel, not only Castles ought to open and expand their Gates; but even Rocks divide their solid Bodies, and Mountains bow their Ambitious Crests, to make her en­trance, and afford her a Retreat. Enter there­fore, Sir, this Paradise, where you shall find a bright Constellation, worthy to shine in con­junction with that Heaven of Beauty which you bring: Here shall you find Arms in their height, and Beauty in Perfection. Don Quixote's Speech, Mien, and Garb, put the Judge to a strange Non-plus; and he was not a little surpriz'd on t'other Hand at the sudden appearance of the Three La­dies, who being inform'd of the Judge's coming, and the young Lady's Beauty, were come out to see and entertain her. But Don Ferdinand, Cardenio, and the Curate, addressing him in a Style very different from the Knight, soon convinc'd him that he had to do with Gentlemen, and Persons of Note, tho' Don Quixote's Figure and Behaviour put him to a stand, not being able to make any reasonable conjecture of his Extravagance. After the usual Civilities pass'd on both Sides, they found upon examination that the Women must all lye together in Don Quixote's Apartment, and the Men remain without to guard them. The Judge consenting that his Daughter shou'd wait [Page 528] on the Ladies, he remain'd contented with his own Bed, and part of the Inn-keeper's for himself and the Gentlemen, and so made a shift to pass the Night.

The Captain, upon the first sight of the Judge, had a strong presumption that he was one of his Brothers, and presently ask'd one of his Servants his Name and Country. The Fellow told him, his Name was Juan Perez de Viedma, and that, as he was inform'd, he was born in the Highlands of Leon. This, with his own Observations, con­firm'd his Opinion, that this was the Brother who had made Study his Choice; whereupon calling aside Don Ferdinand, Cardenio, and the Curate, he told them with great Joy what he had learn'd, with what the Servant further told him, that his Master being made a Judge of the Court of Mexico, was then upon his Journey to the Indies; that the young Lady was his only Daughter, whose Mother dy'd in Child-birth, settl'd her Dowry upon her Daughter for a Portion, and that the Father had still liv'd a Widower, and was very Rich. Upon the whole Matter, he ask'd their Ad­vice, whether they thought it proper for him to discover himself presently to his Brother, or by some means try how his Pulse beat first in relati­on to his loss, by which he might guess at his Reception. Why should you doubt of a kind one, Sir, said the Curate? Because I am poor, Sir, said the Captain, and would therefore by some device fathom his Affections; for should he prove asha­med to own me, I should be more asham'd to dis­cover my self. Then leave the Management to me, said the Curate; the Affable and courteous Behaviour of the Judge seems to me so very far from Pride, that you need not doubt a Welcome; but however, because you desire it, I engage to [Page 529] find a way to found him. Supper was now upon the Table, and all the Gentlemen sat down, but the Captain, who eat with the Ladies in the next Room; when the Company had half Supp'd, My Lord Judge, said the Curate, I remember about some years ago I was happy in the acquaintance and friendship of a Gentleman of your Name when I was Prisoner in Constantinople; he was a Captain of as much Worth and Courage as any in the Spanish Infantry, but as unfortunate as brave. What was his Name, pray Sir, said the Judge? Ruy Perez de Viedma, answer'd the Curate, of a Town in the Mountains of Leon. I remember he told me a very odd Passage, between his Father, his two Brothers, and himself; and truly had it come from any Man below his unsuspected Credit and Reputation, I should have thought it no more than a Story: He said, that his Father made an equal dividend of his Estate among his three Sons, giving them such Advice as might have fitted the Mouth of Cato; that he made Arms his choice, and with such success, that within a few Years (by the pure Merit of his Bravery) he was made Captain of a Foot-Company, and had a fair pros­pect of being advanc'd to a Colonel; but his For­tune forsook him, where he had most reason to ex­pect her Favour; for, in the memorable Battel of Lepanto, where so many Christians recover'd their Liberty, he unfortunately lost his. I was taken at Goletta, and after different turns of Fortune we became Companions at Constantinople; thence we were carry'd to Algiers, where one of the most strange Adventures in the World befell this Gen­tleman. The Curate then briefly ran through the whole Story of the Captain and Zoraida, (the Judge sitting all the time more attentive than he ever did on the Bench) to their being taken and stripp'd [Page 530] by the French; and that he had heard nothing of them after that, nor could ever learn whether they came into Spain, or were carry'd Prisoners into France.

The Captain stood list'ning in a Corner, and ob­serv'd the Motions of his Brother's Countenance, while the Curate told his Story: Which, when he had finish'd, the Judge breathing out a deep sigh, and the Tears standing in his Eyes: O Sir, said he, if you knew how nearly your Relation touches me, you would easily excuse the violent Eruption of these Tears. The Captain you spoke of is my eldest Brother, who, being of a stronger Constitution of Body, and more elevated Soul, made the Glory and Fame of War his Choice, which was one of the three Proposals made by my Father, as your Companion told you. I apply'd my self to Study, and my younger Brother has purchas'd a vast Estate in Peru, out of which he has transmitted to my Father, enough to support his liberal Dis­position, and to me wherewithal to continue my Studies, and advance my self to the Rank and Authority which now I maintain. My Father is still alive, but dies daily for grief he can learn nothing of his eldest Care; and importunes Heaven in­cessantly that he may once more see him before Death close his Eyes. 'Tis very strange, consider­ing his discretion in other Matters, that neither Prosperity nor Adversity could draw one Line from him, to give his Father an account of his Fortunes. For had he or we had the least hint of his Captivity, he needed not have staid for the Miracle of the Moorish Lady's Cane for his Delive­ance. Now am I in the greatest uneasiness in the World, least the French, the better to conceal their Robbery, may have kill'd him; the thoughts of this will damp the pleasure of my Voyage, which [Page 531] I thought to prosecute so pleasantly. Could I but guess, dear Brother, continu'd he, where you might be found, I would hazard Life and Fortune for your Deliverance. Could our aged Father once understand you were alive, though hidden in the deepest and darkest Dungeon in Barbary, his Estate, mine, and my Brother's, all should fly for your Ransom. And for the Fair and Liberal Zoraida, what thanks, what recompence could we provide? O, might I see the happy Day of her Spiritual Birth and Baptism, to see her joyn'd to him in Faith and Marriage, how should we all rejoyce! These and such like Expressions the Judge utter'd with so much passion and vehemency, that he mov'd a concern in every body.

The Curate, foreseeing the hapyy Success of his Design, resolv'd to prolong the discovery no farther; and to free the Company from suspence, he went to the Lady's Room, and leading out Zoraida, follow'd by the rest, he took the Captain by t'other hand, and presenting them to the Judge; suppress your Grief, my Lord, said he, and glut your Heart with Joy, behold what you so passionately desir'd, your dear Brother, and his fair Deliverer; this Gentleman is Captain Viedma, and this the Beauti­ful Algerine; the French have only reduc'd them to this low Condition, to make Room for your Generous Sentiments and Liberality. The Captain then approaching to embrace, the Judge held him off with both his hands, to view him well; but once knowing him, he flew into his Arms with such Affection, and such abundance of Tears, that all the Spectators sympathiz'd in his Passions. The Brothers spoke so feelingly, and their mutual Af­fection was so moving, the surprize so wonderful, and their Joy so transporting, that it must be left purely to imagination to conceive. Now they tell [Page 532] one another the strange turns and mazes of their Fortunes, then renew their Caresses to the height of Brotherly tenderness. Now the Judge embraces Zoraida, then makes her an Offer of his whole Fortune; next makes his Daughter embrace her; then the sweet and innocent converse of the beauti­ful Christian, and the lovely Moor, so touch'd the whole Company, that they all wept for Joy. In the mean time Don Quixote was very solidly atten­tive, and wond'ring at these strange Occurrences, attributed them purely to something answerable to the Chimerical Notions which are incident to Chivalry. The Captain and Zoraida in concert with the whole Company, resolv'd to return with their Brother to Sevil, and thence to advise their Father of his Arrival and Liberty, that the old Gentleman should make the best shift he could to get so far to see the Baptism and Marriage of Zo­raida, while the Judge took his Voyage to the In­dies, being oblig'd to make no delay, because the Indian Fleet were ready at Sevil, to set Sail in a Month for New-Spain.

Every thing being now settl'd, to the universal satisfaction of the Company, and being very late, they all agreed for Bed, only Don Quixote, who must necessarily Guard the Castle whilst they slept, lest some Tyrant or Giant, covetous of the great Treasure of Beauty which it inclos'd, should make some dangerous Attempt. He had the Thanks of the House, and the Judge being farther inform'd of his Humour, laugh'd very heartily. Sancho Pança was very uneasie and waspish for want of sleep, tho' the best provided with a Bed, bestowing him­self on his Pack-Saddle; but he paid dearly for it, as we shall hear presently. The Ladies being re­tir'd to their Chamber, and every body else with­drawn to rest, and Don Quixote planted Centinel [Page 533] at the Castle-Gate, the Ladies heard of a sudden, some body singing so sweetly, that he allur'd all their Attentions, but chiefly Dorothea's with whom the Judge's Daughter Donna Clara de Viedma lay. None could imagine, who could make such pretty Musick without an Instrument; sometimes it sounded as from the Yard, sometimes as from the Stable. With this Cardenio knock'd softly at their Door, Ladies, Ladies, said he, are you awake; Can you sleep when so charmingly Serenaded? Don't you hear how sweetly one of the Foot-men sings? Yes, Sir, said Dorothea, we hear him plainly. Then Dorothea hearkning as attentively as she could, heard this Song.

CHAP. XVI. The Story of the young Muleteer, with other strange Adventures that happen'd in the Inn.

Dorothea thought it wou'd not be much amiss to give Donna Clara the opportunity of hearing so ex­cellent a Voice, wherefore jogging her gently, first on one side and then on to'ther, and the young Lady waking, I ask your Pardon, my Dear, cry'd Dorothea, for thus interrupting your repose; and I hope you'll easily forgive me, since I only wake you that you may have the pleasure of hearing one of the most charming Voices, that possibly you ever heard in your Life. Donna Clara, who was hardly awake, did not perfectly understand what Dorothea said, and therefore desir'd her to repeat what she spoke to her before; Dorothea did so; which then oblig'd Donna Clara, also to listen, but scarce had she heard the early Musician sing two Verses, e'er she was taken with a strange trembling, as if she had been seiz'd with a violent sit of a Quartan Ague, and then closely embracing Doro­thea, Ah! dear Madam, cry'd she, with a sigh, why did you wake me? Alass! the greatest happi­ness I cou'd now have expected, had been to have stopt my Ears. That unhappy Musician! How's this, my dear, cry'd Dorothea have you not heard, that the young Lad who sung now, is but a Mule­teer? Oh no, he's no such thing, reply'd Clara, but a young Lord, heir to a great Estate, and has such a full possession of my Heart, that if he does not slight it, it must be his for ever. Dorothea was [Page 535] strangely surpriz'd at the young Lady's passionate Expressions, that seem'd far to exceed those of Per­sons of her tender Years: You speak so mysteriously, Madam, reply'd she, that I can't rightly understand you, unless you will please to let me know more plainly, what you wou'd say of Hearts and Sighs, and this young Musician, whose Voice has caus'd so great an alteration in you. However speak no more of 'em now; for I'm resolv'd I'll not lose the pleasure of hearing him sing. Hold, continu'd she, I fancy he's going to entertain us with another Song. With all my Heart, return'd Clara, and with that she stopt her Ears, that she might not hear him; at which again Dorothea cou'd not choose but admire; but list'ning to his Voice, she heard the following Song.

Here the Voice ended, and Donna Clara's Sighs began; which caus'd the greatest curiosity imagin­able in Dorothea, to know the occasion of so moving a Song, and of so sad a Complaint; wherefore she then entreated her to pursue the discourse she had begun before. Then Clara, fearing Lucinda wou'd over-hear her, getting as near Dorothea as was pos­sible, laid her Mouth so close to Dorothea's Ear, that she was out of danger of being understood by any other, and began in this manner. He who sung is a Gentleman's Son of Aragon, his Father is a great Lord, and dwelt just over against my Father's at Court, and tho' our Windows in the Winter were, cover'd with Oil'd-cloath, and in the Summer shaded with Latice, yet (I can't tell by what ac­cident) this young Gentleman, who then went to School, had a sight of me, and whether it were at Church, or at some other place, I can't justly tell [Page 537] you; but, (in short) he fell in love with me, and made me sensible of his Passion from his own Windows, which were opposite to mine, with so many signs, and such showers of Tears, that at once forc'd me both to believe and to love him, not knowing how great his Passion was for me. Amongst the usual signs that he made me, one was that of joyning his Hands together, intimating by that his desire to Marry me; which, tho' I heartily wish'd, I cou'd not communicate to any one, be­ing Motherless, and having none near me whom I might trust with the management of such an Af­fair; and was therefore constrain'd to bear it in silence, without permitting him any other favour, more than to let him gaze on me, by lifting up the Latice or Oil'd Cloath a little when my Father and his were abroad. At which he wou'd be so tran­sported with joy, that you wou'd certainly have thought he had been distracted. At last, my Father's business call'd him away; yet not so soon, but that the young Gentleman had notice of it some time before his departure; whence he had it I know not, for 'twas impossible for me to acquaint him with it. This so sensibly afflicted him, as far as I understand, that he fell sick; so that I cou'd not get a sight of him all that day of our departure, so much as to look a Farewel on him. But after Two days travel, just as we came into an Inn, in a Village a days journey hence, I saw him at the Lodging-door, dress'd so exactly like a Muleteer, that it had been utterly impossible for me to have known him, had not his perfect Image been stamp'd in my Soul. Yes, yes, dear Madam, I knew him, and was amaz'd and over-joy'd at his sight; and he saw me unknown to my Father, whose sight he carefully avoids, when we cross the ways in our Journey, and when we come to any Inn: And [Page 538] now, since I know what he is, and what pain and fatigue it must necessarily be to him to travel thus far a-foot, I am ready to dye my self with the ap­prehension of what he suffers; and wherever he sets his Feet there I set my Eyes. I can't imagine what he proposes to himself in this attempt; nor by what means he cou'd thus make his escape from his Father, who loves him beyond Expression; both because he has no other Son to inherit, and because the young Gentleman's Merits oblige him to it; which you must needs confess when you see him: And I dare affirm beside, that all he has sung was his own immediate thought; for, as I have heard, he is an excellent Scholar, and a great Poet. And now, whenever I see him, or hear him sing, I start and tremble, as at the sight of a Ghost, lest my Father shou'd know him, and so be inform'd of our mutual affection. I never spoke one word to him in my Life; yet I love him so dearly, that 'tis im­possible I should live without him. This, dear Madam, is all the account I can give you of this Musician, with whose voice you have been so well entertain'd, and which alone might convince you that he is no Muleteer, as you were pleas'd to say, but one who is Master of a great Estate, and of my poor Heart, as I have already told you.

Enough, dear Madam, reply'd Dorothea, kissing her a thousand times: 'Tis very well, compose your self till day-light; and then I trust in Heaven I shall so manage your Affairs, that the end of them shall be as fortunate as the beginning is innocent. Alas! Madam, return'd Clara, what end can I pro­pose to my self; since his Father is so rich, and of so Noble a Family, that he will hardly think me worthy to be his Son's Servant, much less his Wife? And then again, I would not Mary without my Father's Consent for the Universe. All I can de­sire [Page 539] is, that the young Gentleman would return home, and leave his pursuit of me: Happily, by a long absence, and the great distance of Place, the pain which now so much afflicts me, may be some­what mitigated; tho', I fear what I now propose as a Remedy, would rather increase my Distemper: Though I can't imagine whence, or by what means this Passion for him seiz'd me, since we are both so young, being much about the same Age, I believe, and my Father says I shan't be sixteen till next Michaelmas. Dorothea could not forbear laugh­ing to hear the young Lady talk so innocently. My Dear, (said Dorothea) let us repose our self the little remaining part of the Night, and when Day appears, we will put a happy period to your Sor­rows; or my Judgment fails me. Then they ad­dress'd themselves again to sleep, and there was a deep silence throughout all the Inn; only the Inn-keeper's Daughter and Maritornes were awake, who knowing Don Quixote's peccant Humour very well, and that he sat Arm'd on Horse-back, keeping Guard without doors, a fancy took 'em, and they agreed to have a little pastime with him, and hear some of his fine raving Speeches.

You must know then, that there was but one Window in all the Inn that look'd out into the Field, and that was only a hole, out of which they us'd to throw their Straw: To this same hole then came these two demy Ladies, whence they saw Don Quixote Mounted, and leaning on his Javelin, and often fetching such mournful and deep sighs, that his very Soul seem'd to be torn from him at each of them: They observ'd besides, that he said in a soft amorous tone, ‘O, my Divine Dulcinea of Toboso [...] The Heaven of all Perfections! The End and Quintessence of Discretion! The Treasury of sweet Aspect and Behaviour! The Magazine of [Page 540] Vertue! And, in a Word, The Idea of all that is Profitable, Modest, or Delightful in the Universe! What noble thing employs thy Excellency at this present? May I presume to hope that thy Soul is entertain'd with the thoughts of thy Captive-Knight, who voluntarily exposes himself to so many Dangers for thy sake? O thou Triformed Luminary, give me some account of her! perhaps thou art now gazing with Envy on her as she's walking either through some stately Gallery of her sumptuous Palaces, or leaning on her happy Window, there meditating how, with safety of her Honour and Grandeur, she may sweeten and alleviate the Torture which my poor afflicted Heart suffers for love of her; with what Glories she shall Crown my Pains, what Rest she shall give to my Cares, what Life to my Death, and what Reward to my Services? And thou, more glorious Planet, which, by this time I presume, art harnessing thy Horses to pay thy earliest Visit to my Adorable Dulcinea; I entreat thee, assoon as thou dost see her, to Salute her with my most profound Respects: But take heed, that when thou look'st on her, and addressest thy self to her, that thou dost not kiss her Face; for if thou dost, I shall grow more Jealous of thee, than ever thou wert of the swift Ingrate, who made thee run and sweat so over the Plains of Thessaly, or the Banks of Peneus: I have forgotten through which of them thou ran'st so raging with Love and Jealousie.’ At these Words the Inn-keeper's Daughter began to call to him softly: Sir Knight, said she, come a little nearer this way, if you please. At these Words Don Quixote turn'd his head, and the Moon shining then very bright, he perceiv'd some body call'd him from the hole, which he fancy'd was a large Window full of Iron-Bars, all [Page 541] richly gilt, suitable to the stately Castle, for which he mistook the Inn; and all on a sudden, he ima­gin'd that the Beautiful Damsel, Daughter to the Lady of the Castle, overcome by the Charms of his Person, return'd to court him, as she did once before. In this thought, that he might not ap­pear uncivil or ungrateful, he turn'd Rozinante and came to the Hole, where seeing the two Lasses, Fair Damsels, said he, I cannot but pity you in your misplac'd Affection, since it is altogether impossible you should meet with any return from the object of your Wishes proportionable to your great Merits and Beauty; but yet you ought not by any means to condemn this unhappy Knight-Errant for this Coldness, since Love has utterly incapacitated him to become a Captive to any other but to her, who, at first sight, made her self abso­lute Mistress of his Soul. Pardon me therefore, excellent Lady, and retire to your Apartment. Let not, I beseech you, any farther Arguments of Love force me to be less Grateful or Civil than I would: But if in your Passion you have for me, you can bethink your self of any thing else where­in I may do you any Service, Love alone except­ed, Command it freely; and I swear to you by my absent, yet most charming Enemy, to sacri­fice it to you immediately; though it be a Lock of Medusa's Hair, which are all Snakes, or the very Sun-beams enclos'd in a Glass-vial.

My Lady needs none of those things, Sir Knight, reply'd Maritornes. What then would she com­mand, ask'd Don Quixote? Only the honour of one of your fair Hands, return'd Maritornes, to satisfy, in some measure, that violent Passion which has oblig'd her to come hither with the great hazard of her Honour: For if, my Lord, her Father should know it, one of her beautiful Ears were the least [Page 542] part he would take off her. Oh! that he durst at­tempt it, cry'd Don Quixote; but I know he dare not, unless he has a mind to die the most unhap­py Death that ever Father suffer'd, for sacrilegi­ously depriving his amorous Daughter of one of her delicate Members. Maritornes made no doubt that he would comply with her Desire, and having already laid her Design, got in a trice to the Sta­ble, and brought Sancho Pança's Ass's Halter to the hole, just as Don Quixote, standing upon Rozinante's Saddle, more easily to reach the barricado'd Win­dow, where he imagin'd the enamour'd Lady staid; and lifting up his Hand to her, said, Here, Madam, take the Hand, or rather, as I may say, the Executioner of all earthly Miscreants! Take, I say, that Hand, which never Woman touch'd before: No, not even she her self who has intire possession of my whole Body: Nor do I hold it up to you, that you may kiss it; but that you may observe the contexture of the Sinews, the Li­gament of the Muscles, and the largeness and dila­tation of the Veins; whence you may conclude, how strong that Arm must be, to which such a Hand is joyn'd. We shall take notice of that presently, reply'd Maritornes, and cast the Noose she had made in the Halter on his Wrist; and then descending from the Hole, she ty'd the other end of the Halter very fast to the Lock of the Door. Don Quixote, being sensible that the Bracelet she had bestow'd on him was very rough, cry'd, You seem rather to abuse than compliment my Hand; but I beseech you treat it not so unkindly, since that is not the cause that I do not entertain a Pas­sion for you: Nor is it just or equal, you should discharge the whole Tempest of your Vengeance on so small a part. Consider, those who love truly, can never be so cruel in their Revenge. But not [Page] [Page]

[Page 543] a Soul regarded what he said: For, as soon as Maritornes had fasten'd him, she and her Confede­rate, almost dead with laughing, ran away, and left him so strongly oblig'd, that 'twas impossible he should disengage himself.

He stood then as I said on Rozinante's Saddle, with all his Arm drawn into the Hole, and the Rope fasten'd to the Lock, being under a fearful apprehension, that if Rozinante mov'd but never so little on any side, he should slip and hang by the Arm, and therefore durst not use the least motion in the World, though he might reasonably have expected from Rozinante's Patience and gentle Temper, that if he were not urg'd, he would never have mov'd for a whole Age together of his own accord. In short, the Knight perceiv­ing himself fast, and that the Ladies had forsaken him, immediately concluded that all this was done by way of Inchantment, as in the last Ad­venture in the very same Castle, when the In­chanted Moor (the Carrier) did so damnably mawl him. Then he began alone to curse his want of Discretion and Conduct, since, having once made his escape out of that Castle in so miserable a condition, he should venture into it a second time: For, by the way, 'twas an Observation a­mong all Knights-Errant, That if they were once foil'd in an Adventure, 'twas a certain sign it was not reserv'd for them, but for some other to finish; wherefore they would never prove it again. Yet for all this, he ventur'd to draw back his Arm, to try if he could free himself; but he was so fast bound, that his attempt prov'd fruitless. 'Tis true, 'twas with care and deliberation he drew it, for fear Rozinante should stir: And then fain would he have seated himself in the Saddle, but he found he must either stand, or leave his [Page 544] Arm for a Ransom. A hundred times he wish'd for Amadis's Sword, on which no Inchantment had power; then he fell a cursing his Stars; then reflected on the great loss the World would sustain all the time he should continue under this Inchantment, as he really believ'd it: Then his Adorable Dulcinea came afresh into his thoughts: Many a time did he call to his Trusty Squire Sancho Pança; who, bury'd in a profound Sleep, lay stretch'd at length on his Ass's Pannel, never so much as dreaming of the pangs his Mother felt when she bore him: Then the Aid of the Necro­mancers Lirgandeo and Aquife was Invok'd by the unhappy Knight. And, in fine, the Morning sur­priz'd him, rack'd with Despair and Confusion, bellowing like a Bull; for he could not hope from Day-light any Cure, or mitigation of his Pain, which he believ'd would be eternal, being abso­lutely perswaded he was Inchanted, since he per­ceiv'd that Rozinante mov'd no more than a Moun­tain; and therefore he was of Opinion, that nei­ther he nor his Horse should eat, drink, or sleep, but remain in that State, till the Malignancy of the Stars were o'erpast, or till some more power­ful Magician should break the Charm.

But 'twas an erroneous Opinion; for it was scarce Day-break, when Four Horse-men, very well accoutred, their Fire-locks hanging at the Pummels of their Saddles, came thither, and finding the Inn-gate shut, call'd and knock'd very loud and hard; which Don Quixote perceiving from the Post where he stood Centinel, cry'd out, with a rough Voice and a haughty Mien, Knights or Squires, or of whatsoever other Degree you are, knock no more at the Gates of this Castle! Since you may assure your selves, that those who are within at such an Hour as this, are either taking their re­pose, [Page 545] or are not accustom'd to open their Fortress, till Phoebus has display'd himself upon the Globe: Retire therefore, and wait till it is clear Day, and then we will see whether 'tis just or no, that they shou'd open their Gates to you. What a Devil (cry'd one of 'em) what Castle or Fortress is this, that we shou'd be oblig'd to so long a Ceremony? Prithee, Friend, if thou art the Inn-keeper, bid them open the Door to us: For we ride Post, and can stay no longer than just to bait our Horses. Gentlemen, said Don Quixote, do I look like an Inn-keeper then? I can't tell what thou'rt like, reply'd another, but I am sure, thou talkest like a Mad-man, to call this Inn a Castle. It is a Castle, return'd Don Quixote, ay, and one of the best in the Province; and contains one who has held a Scepter in her Hand, and a Crown on her Head. It might more properly have been said exactly con­trary, reply'd the Traveller, a Scepter in her Tail, and a Crown in her Hand: Yet 'tis not unlikely that there may be a Company of Strollers with­in; and those do frequently hold such Scepters, and wear such Crowns as thou pratest of: For cer­tainly no Person worthy to sway a Scepter, or wear a Crown, wou'd condescend to take up a Lodging in such a paultry Inn as this, where I hear so little Noise. Thou hast not been much conversant in the World (said Don Quixote) since thou art so miserably Ignorant of Accidents so fre­quently met with in Knight-Errantry. The Com­panions of him that held this tedious Discourse with Don Quixote were tir'd with their foolish Prattle so long together, and therefore they re­turn'd with greater fury to the Gate, where they knock'd so violently and loud, that they wak'd both the Inn-keeper and his Guests; and so the Host rose to attend 'em.

[Page 546]In the mean time, Rozinante, pensive and sad, with Ears hanging down, and motionless, bore up his out-stretch'd Lord; when one of the Horses of those Four that came thither last, walk'd to­wards Rozinante to smell him, and he truly being real Flesh and Blood, tho' very like a Wooden Block, cou'd not choose but be sensible of it, nor forbear turning to smell the other, which so sea­sonably came to comfort and divert him; but he had hardly stirr'd one inch from his place, when Don Quixote's Feet that were close together, slipt asunder, and tumbling from the Saddle he had inevitably fallen to the Ground, had not his Wrist been securely fasten'd to the Rope; which put him to so great a Torture, that he cou'd not imagine but that his Hand was cutting off, or his Arm tearing from his Body; yet he hung so near the Ground, that he cou'd just reach it with the tips of his Toes, which added to his tor­ment; for perceiving how little he wanted to the setting his Feet wholly on the Ground, he strove and tugg'd as much as he cou'd to effect it; not much unlike those that have the Strapado, who put themselves to greater pain in striving to stretch their Limbs, deluded by the hopes of touching the Ground, if they cou'd but inch themselves out a little longer.

CHAP. XVII. A Continuation of the strange Adventures in the Inn.

THE miserable Clamours of Don Quixote pre­sently drew the Inn-keeper to the Door, which he hastily opening, was strangely affrighted to hear such lamentable shouts, and the Strangers stood no less surpriz'd. Maritornes, whom the Cries had also rouz'd, guessing the Cause, ran straight to the Barn, and slipping the Halter, re­leas'd the Don, who made her a very prostrate Ac­knowledgement by an unmerciful fall on the Ground. The Inn-keeper and Strangers crowded immediately round him to know the cause of his Misfortune. He, without regard to their De­mands, unmanacles his Wrist, bounces from the Ground, Mounts Rozinante, braces his Target, couches his Lance; and taking a large Circumfe­rence in the Field, came up with a hand-Gallop: Whoever, said he, dare deny the late wonderful Posture of my Affairs, the just Title of Inchant­ment, (by the gracious permission of my Lady the Princess Micomicona) I affirm, he lies, and will maintain my Assertion by immediate Combat. The Travellers stood amaz'd at Don Quixote's Words, till the Host remov'd their Wonder by informing them of his usual Extravagancies in this kind, and that his Behaviour was not to be minded. They then ask'd the Inn-keeper if a cer­tain Youth, near the Age of Fifteen, had set up at his House, Mounted like a Muleteer; adding withal some farther Marks and Tokens denoting [Page 548] Donna Clara's Lover: He told them that among the number of his Guests, such a Person might pass him undistinguish'd; but one of them accidentally spying the Coach which the Judge rid in, call'd to his Companions, O! Gentlemen, Gentlemen, here stands the Coach which we were told my young Master follow'd, and here he must be, that's cer­tain: Let's lose no time, one Guard the Door, the rest enter the House to Ferret him—hold— stay—(continu'd he) ride one about to the other side o'th' House, lest he 'scape us through the back Yard; agreed says another; and they Posted them­selves accordingly. The Inn-keeper, though he might guess that they sought the young Gentle­man whom they had describ'd, was nevertheless puzzl'd in the cause of their so diligent Search. By this time, fair Day-light and the Out-cries of Don Quixote had rais'd the whole House; the two Ladies, Clara and Dorothea, having rested ill, being other­wise disturb'd, one through concern of being so near her Lover, and t'other by grief of being dis­tanc'd from hers. Don Quixote seeing the Travel­lers neither regard him nor his Challenge, was ready to burst with Fury and Indignation; and could he have dispens'd with the Rules of Chival­ry, which oblige a Knight-Errant to the finishing one Adventure before his Embarking in another, he had assaulted them all, and forc'd them to an­swer him to their Cost; but being unfortunately engag'd to re-instate the Princess Micomicona, his Hands were ty'd up, and he was compell'd to de­sist, and expect where the Search and Diligence of the four Travellers would terminate: One of them found the young Gentleman fast asleep by a Foot-man, little dreaming of being follow'd or discover'd: The Fellow lugging him by the Arm, cries out, Ay, Ay, Don Lewis, these are very fine [Page 549] Cloaths you have got on, and very becoming a Gentleman of your Quality indeed; this scurvy Bed too is very suitable to the care and tender­ness your Mother brought you up with. The Youth having rubb'd his drowsie Eyes, and fixing them stedfastly on the Man, knew him presently for one of his Father's Servants, which struck him Speechless with Surprize. The Fellow went on; there is but one way, Sir, pluck up your Spirits, and return with us to your Father, who is cer­tainly a dead Man unless you be recover'd. How came my Father to know, answer'd Don Lewis, that I took this Way and this Disguise? One of your Fellow-Students, reply'd the Servant, whom you communicated your Design to, mov'd by your Father's Lamentation for your Loss, discover'd it; the good old Gentleman dispatch'd away four of his Men in search of you; and here we are all at your Service, Sir, and the joyfullest Men alive, for our old Master will give us a hearty Welcome, having so soon restor'd him what he lov'd so much. That next to Heav'n, is as I please, said Don Lewis. What would you or Heaven either, please, Sir, but return to your Father? Come, come, Sir, talk no more on't, home you must go, and home you shall go. The Foot-boy that lay with Don Lewis hearing this Dispute rose, and related the Business to Don Ferdinand, Cardenio, and the rest that were now Dress'd, adding withal how the Man gave him the Title of Don, with other Circumstances of their Conference. They being already Charm'd by the sweetness of his Voice, were curious to be inform'd more particu­larly of his Circumstances, resolving to assist him, in case of any Violence offer'd, went presently to the Place where he stood contending with the Servant.

[Page 550]By this Dorothea had left her Chamber, and with her Donna Clara in great Disorder. Dorothea beck­ning Cardenio aside, gave him a short Account of the Musician and Donna Clara; and he told her how the Servants that purfu'd him were arriv'd: Donna Clara over-hearing him, suffer'd such Alterations, that had not Dorothea run and supported her, she had sunk to the Ground. Cardenio promising to bring the Matter to a fair and successful End, ad­vis'd Dorothea to retire with the indispos'd Lady to her Chamber. All the four that pursu'd Don Lewis were now come about him, pressing his Return without Delay to comfort his poor Father; he an­swer'd, 'Twas impossible, being engag'd to put a Business in Execution first, on which depended no less than his Honour, and his present and future Happiness: They urg'd, that since they had found him, there was no returning for them without him, and if he would not go, he should be car­ry'd; not, unless you kill me, answer'd the young Gentleman; upon which all the Company were join'd in the Dispute, Cardenio, Don Ferdinand and his Companions, the Judge, the Curate, the Bar­ber, and Don Quixote, who thought it needless now to Guard the Castle any longer. Cardenio, who knew the young Gentleman's History, ask'd the Fellows upon what Pretence, or by what Au­thority they could carry the Lad away against his Will: Sir, answer'd one of them, we have Reason good for what we do; no less than his Father's Life depends upon his Return. Gentlemen, said Don Lewis, 'tis not proper perhaps to trouble you with a particular Relation of my Affairs; only thus much, I am a Gentleman, and have no De­pendance that should force me to any thing beside my Inclination: Nay, but Sir, answer'd the Ser­vant, Reason, I hope, will force you; and though [Page 551] it cannot move you, it must govern us, who must execute our Orders, and force you back; we only act as we are order'd, Sir. Hold, said the Judge, and let us know the whole state of the Case. O Lord, Sir, answer'd one of the Servants that knew him, my Lord Judge, does not your Worship know your next Neighbour's Child? See here, Sir, he has run away from his Father's House, and has put on these dirty tatter'd Rags to the Scandal of his Family, as your Worship may see. The Judge then viewing him more attentively knew him, and saluting him, What Jest is this, Don Lewis, cry'd he? What mighty Intrigue are you carrying on, young Sir, to occasion this Metamorphosis, so un­becoming your Quality? The young Gentleman could not answer a Word, and the Tears stood in his Eyes; the Judge perceiving his Disorder, de­sir'd the four Servants to trouble themselves no farther, but leave the Youth to his Management, engaging his Word to act to their Satisfaction; and retiring with Don Lewis, he begg'd to know the Occasion of his Flight.

During their Conference, they heard a great Noise at the Inn-Door, occasion'd by two Strangers, who, having lodg'd there over Night, and seeing the whole Family so busy'd in a curious Enquiry into the Four Horsemen's Business, thought to have made off without paying their Shot; but the Inn-keeper, who minded no Man's Business more than his own, stopp'd them in the Nick, and de­manding his Money, upbraided their ungenteel Design very sharply: They return'd the Compli­ment with Kick and Cuff so roundly, that the poor Host cry'd out for Help; his Wife and Daughter saw none so idle as Don Quixote, whom the Daugh­ter addressing, I conjure you, Sir Knight, said she, by that Virtue deliver'd to you from Heaven, to [Page 552] succour my distress'd Father, whom two Villains are beating to Jelly. Beautiful Damsel, answer'd Don Quixote, with a slow Tone and profound Gra­vity, your Petition cannot at the present Juncture prevail, I being with-held from undertaking any new Adventure by an engaging Promise first to finish another; and all the Service you can expect, is only my Counsel in this important Affair; go with all speed to your Father, with Advice to continue and maintain the Battel with his utmost Resolution, till I obtain Permission from the Prin­cess Micomicona to reinforce him, which once grant­ed, you need make no doubt of his Safety. Un­fortunate Wretch that I am, said Maritornes, who over-heard him; before you can have this Leave, my Master will be sent to the other World. Then, Madam, said he, procure me the Permission I men­tion'd, and tho' he were sent into the other World, I'll bring him back in spight of Hell and the Devil, or at least so revenge his Fall on his E­nemies, as shall give ample Satisfaction to his sur­viving Friends; whereupon breaking off the Dis­course, he went and threw himself prostrate before Dorothea, imploring her, in Romantick Style, to grant him a Commission to march and sustain the Governour of that Castle, who was just fainting in a dangerous Engagement. The Princess dispatch'd him very willingly; whereupon presently buck­ling on his Target, and taking up his Sword, he ran to the Inn-Door, where the two Guests stood hand­ling their Landlord very unmercifully: He there made a sudden Stop, tho' Maritornes and the Hostess press'd him twice or thrice to tell the Cause of his Delay in his promis'd Assistance to his Host. I make a Pause, said Don Quixote, because I am com­manded by the Law of Arms to use my Sword a­gainst none under the Order of Knighthood; but [Page 553] let my Squire be call'd, this Affair is altogether his Province. In the mean time Drubs and Bruises were interchangeably given and taken, and the poor Host soundly beaten. His Wife, Daughter and Maid, who stood by, were like to run mad at Don Quixote's hanging back, and the Inn-keeper's unequal Combat; where we shall leave him, with a Design to return to his Assistance presently, tho' his Fool-hardiness deserves a sound beating, for at­tempting a thing he was not likely to compass. We now return to what Don Lewis answer'd the Judge, whom we left retir'd with him; and demanding the Reason of his Travelling on Foot, and in so mean a Disguise. The young Gentleman pressing his Hands very passionately, made this Reply, not without giving a Proof of the Greatness of his Sorrow by his Tears.

Without Ceremony or Preamble, I must tell you, dear Sir, that from the Instant that Heaven made us Neighbours, and I saw Donna Clara, your Daughter and my Mistress, I resign'd to her the whole Command of my Affections; and if you, whom I most truly call my Father don't prevent me, I shall this Day be happy in her Embraces; for her sake have I abandon'd my Father's House; for her have I thus disguis'd my Quality; her would I thus have follow'd thro' the World: She was the North-Star to guide my wand'ring Course, and the Mark at which my Wishes flew. Her Ears indeed are utter Strangers to my Passion; but yet her Eyes may guess, by the Tears she saw dis­till'd from mine. You know my Fortune and my Quality, if these can plead Sir, I lay them at her Feet; then make me this Instant your happy Son; and if my Father, biass'd by contrary Designs, should not approve my Choice, yet Time may work some favourable Change, and alter his Mind. The A­morous [Page 554] Gentleman thus concluded. The Judge was much surpris'd at the handsome Discovery he made of his Affections, and was not a little puzzl'd how to behave himself in so sudden and unexpec­ted a Matter; he therefore without any positive Answer, advis'd him only to compose his Thoughts, to divert himself with his Servants, and to pre­vail with them to allow him that Day to consider on what was proper to be done. Don Lewis ex­press'd his Gratitude by forcibly kissing the Judge's Hands, and bathing them in his Tears, enough to move the Heart of a Rock, much more a Judge's, who (being a Man o'th' World) had presently the Advantage of the Match and Preferment of his Daughter in the Wind; tho' he much doubted the Consent of Don Lewis's Father, who he knew design'd to match his Son into the Nobility.

By this Time Don Quixote's Entreaties more than Threats, had parted the Fray at the Inn Door; the Strangers paying their Reckoning went off, and Don Lewis's Servants stood expecting the Re­sult of the Judge's Discourse with their young Master: When (as the Devil would have it) who should come into the Inn but the Barber whom Don Quixote had robb'd of Mambrino's Helmet, and Sancho of the Pack-Saddle. As he was leading his Beast very gravely to the Stable, he spies Sancho mending something about the Pannel; he knew him presently, and setting upon him very roughly, Ah, Mr. Thief, Mr. Rogue, said he, have I caught you at last, and all my Ass's Furniture in your Hands too. Sancho finding himself so unexpected­ly assaulted, and nettled at the dishonourable Terms of his Language, laying fast hold on the Pannel with one Hand, gave the Barber such a Douse on the Chops with t'other, as made his Mouth over­run with Blood; for all this the Barber stuck by [Page 555] his Hold, and cry'd out so loud, that the whole House was alarm'd at the Noise and Scuffle: I command you, Gentlemen, continu'd he, to assist me in the King's Name; for this Rogue has robb'd me on the King's High-way, and would now mur­der me because I seize upon my Goods. That's a Lie, cry'd Sancho, 'twas no Robbery on the King's High-way; but lawful Plunder won by my Lord Don Quixote fairly in the Field. The Don him­self was now come up, very proud of his Squire's Behaviour on this Occasion, accounting him thenceforth a Man of Courage, and designing him the Honour of Knighthood on the first Opportuni­ty, thinking his Courage might prove a future Or­nament to the Order. Among other things which the Barber urg'd to prove his Claim, Gentlemen, said he, this Pack-Saddle is as certainly my Pack-Saddle as I hope to die in my Bed; I know it as well as if it had been bred and born with me; nay, my very Ass will witness for me; do but try the Saddle on him, and if it does not fit him as close as close can be, then call me a Liar—Nay, more than that, Gentlemen, that very Day when they robb'd me of my Pack-Saddle, they took away a special new Bason which was never us'd, and which cost me a Crown. Here Don Quixote could no longer contain himself; but, thrusting between them, he parted them; and having caus'd the Pack-Saddle to be deposited on the Ground to open View, till the mighty Truth came to a final De­cision; That this honourable Company may know, cry'd he, in what a manifest Errour this good Squire persists, take notice how he degrades that with the Name of Bason, which was, is, and shall be the Helmet of Mambrino, which I fairly won from him in the Field, and lawfully made my self Lord of by Force of Arms. As to the Pack-Sad­dle, [Page 556] 'tis a Concern that's beneath my Regard; all I have to urge in that Affair, is, That my Squire begg'd my Permission to strip that vanquish'd Cow­ard's Horse of his Trappings to adorn his own; he had my Authority for the Deed, and he took them: And now for his converting it from a Horse's Furniture to a Pack-Saddle, no other Rea­son can be brought, but that such Transformati­ons frequently occur in the Affairs of Chivalry. For a Confirmation of this, dispatch, my Sancho, and produce the Helmet which this Squire would maintain to be a Bason. O' my Faith, Sir, said Sancho, if this be all you can say for your self, Mambrino's Helmet will prove as arrant a Bason, as this same Man's Furniture is a meer Pack-Saddle. Obey my Orders, said Don Quixote, I cannot be­lieve that every thing in this Castle will be guided by Inchantment. Sancho brought the Bason, which Don Quixote holding up in his Hands, behold Gen­tlemen, continu'd he, with what Face can this impudent Squire affirm this to be a Bason, and not the Helmet I mention'd: Now I swear before you all, by the Order of Knighthood, which I profess, That this is the same individual Helmet which I won from him, without the least Addi­tion or Diminution. That I'll swear, said Sancho; for since my Lord won it, he never fought but once in it, and that was the Battel wherein he free'd those ungracious Gally-Slaves, who by the same Token would have knock'd out his Brains with a Shower of Stones, had not this same honest Bason-Helmet sav'd his Skull.

CHAP. XVIII. The Controversy upon Mambrino's Helmet and the Pack-Saddle, disputed and decided; with other Accidents, not more strange than true.

PRAY good Gentlemen (said the Barber) let's have your Opinion in this Matter, I suppose you will grant this same Helmet to be a Bason. He that dares grant any such thing (said Don Quixote) must know that he lies plainly, if a Knight; but if a Squire, he lies abominably. Our Barber (who was privy to the whole Matter) to humour the Jest, and carry the Diversion a little higher took up t'other Shaver. Mr. Barber, (you must pardon me, Sir, if I don't give you your Titles) I must let you understand (said he) that I serv'd an Apprenticeship to your Trade, and have been a Free-man in the Company these thirty Years, and therefore am not to learn what belongs to Shaving. You must likewise know, that I have been a Sol­dier too in my younger Days, and consequently understand the Differences between a Helmet, a Morion, and a Close-Helmet, with all other Ac­coutrements belonging to a Man of Arms. Yet I say (with Submission still to better Judgment) that this Piece, here in Dispute before us, is as far from being a Bason, as Light is from Darkness. Withal I affirm, on the other Hand, that altho' it be a Helmet, 'tis not a compleat one: Right, (said [Page 558] the Don) for the lower Part and the Beaver are wanting. A clear Case, a clear Case, said the Curate, Cardenio, Don Ferdinand, and his Companions, and the Judge himself (had not Lewis's Concern made him thoughtful) would have humour'd the Mat­ter. Lord have Mercy upon us now, (said the poor Barber half distracted) is it possible that so many sine honourable Gentlemen should know a Bason or a Helmet no better than this comes to. Gadzookers, I defy the wisest University in all Spain with their Scholarship, to shew me the like again. Well—if it must be a Helmet, it must be a Helmet, that's all. — And by the same Rule my Pack-Saddle must troop too; as this Gen­tleman says. I must confess, said Don Quixote, as to outward Appearance it is a Pack-Saddle, but as I have already said, I will not pretend to deter­mine the Dispute of this Point. Nay, said the Curate, if Don Quixote speak not, the Matter will never come to a Decision; because in all Affairs of Chivalry we must all give him the Preference. I Swear, worthy Gentlemen, said Don Quixote, that the Adventures I have encounter'd in this Castle are so strange and supernatural, that I must infalli­bly conclude them the Effects of pure Magick and Inchantment. The first Time I ever enter'd its Gates I was strangely embarrass'd by an inchanted Moor that Inhabited it, and Sancho himself had no better Entertainment from his Attendants; and last Night I hung suspended almost two Hours by this Arm, without the Power of helping my self, or of assigning any reasonable Cause of my Mis­fortune. So that for me to meddle or give my O­pinion in so confus'd and intricate Events, would appear Presumption; I have already giv'n my final Determination as to the Helmet-Controversy, but dare pronounce no definitive Sentence on the Pack-Saddle, [Page 559] but shall remit it to the discerning Judg­ment of the Company; perhaps the Power of In­chantment may not prevail on you that are not dubb'd Knights, so that your Understandings may be free, and your judicial Faculties more piercing to enter into the true Nature of these Events, and not conclude upon them from their Appearances. Undoubtedly, answer'd Don Ferdinand, the Decision of this Process depends upon our Sentiments, ac­cording to Don Quixote's Opinion; that the Matter therefore may be fairly discuss'd, and that we may proceed upon solid and firm Grounds, we'll put it to the Vote. Let every one give me his Suffrage in my Ear, and I will oblige my self to report them faithfully to the Board.

To those that knew Don Quixote this prov'd ex­cellent Sport; but to others unacquainted with his Humour, as Don Lewis and his four Servants, it appear'd the most ridiculous Stuff in Nature; three Travellers too that happen'd to call in by the Way, and were found to be Officers of the Holy Brotherhood, or Pursivants, thought the People were all bewitch'd in good Earnest. Every Body laugh'd very heartily to see Don Ferdinand whispering each particular Person very gravely to have his Vote upon the important Contention of the Pack-Sad­dle. When he had gone the Rounds among his own Faction, that were all privy to the Jest; Ho­nest Fellow, said he very loudly, I grow weary of asking so many impertinent Questions; every Man has his Answer at his Tongue's End, that 'tis meer Madness to call this a Pack-Saddle, and that 'tis positively, nemine contradicente, right Horse-Furni­ture, and great Horse-Furniture too; besides, Friend, your Allegations and Proofs are of no Force, therefore in spight of your Ass and you, we will give it for the Defendant, that this is, and will [Page 560] continue the Furniture of a Horse, nay, and of a great Horse too. Now the Devil take me, said the Barber, if you be not all damnably deceiv'd; and may I be hang'd if my Conscience does not plainly tell me 'tis a down-right Pack-Saddle: but I have lost it according to Law, and so fare it well. — But I am neither mad nor drunk sure, for I am fresh and fasting this Morning from eve­ry thing but Sin.

The Barber's Raving was no less diverting than Don Quixote's Clamours; Sentence is pass'd, cry'd he, and let every Man take Livery of his Goods and Chattels, and Heav'n give him Joy. This is a Jest, a meer Jest, said one of the four Servants; certainly, Gentlemen, you can't be in Earnest, you're too wise to talk at this Rate: For my Part, I say, and will maintain it, for there's no Reason the Barber should be wrong'd, that this is a Bason, and that the Pack-Saddle of a He-Ass. Mayn't it be a She-Ass's Pack-Saddle, Friend, said the Cu­rate? That's all one, Sir, said the Fellow; the Que­stion is not whether it be a He or a She-Ass's Pack-Saddle, but whether it be a Pack-Saddle or not, that's the Matter, Sir. One of the Officers of the Holy Brotherhood, who had heard the whole Contro­versy, very angry to hear such an Error main­tain'd: Gentlemen, said he, this is no more a Horse's Saddle than 'tis my Father, and he that says the contrary is drunk or mad. You lie like an un­mannerly Rascal, said the Knight; and at the same Time with his Lance, which he had always ready for such Occasions, he discharg'd such a Blow on the Officer's Head, that had not the Fel­low leap'd aside it would have laid him flat. The Lance by the Force of the Stroak flew to Pieces, and the rest of the Officers seeing their Comrade so abus'd cry'd out for Help, charging every one to [Page 561] aid and assist the Holy Brotherhood. The Inn-keeper, being one of the Fraternity, ran for his Sword and Staff, and then joyn'd his Fellows. Don Lewis's Servants got round their Master to defend him from Harm, and secure him lest he should make his Escape in the Scuffle. The Barber seeing the whole House turn'd topsy turvy, laid Hold again on his Pack-Saddle; but Sancho who watch'd his Motions was as ready as he, and secur'd t'other End of it.

Don Quixote drew, and assaulted the Officers Pell-mell, Don Lewis call'd to his Servants to join Don Quixote, and the Gentlemen that sided with him; for Cardenio, Don Ferdinand and his Friends had engag'd on his Side. The Curate cry'd out, the Landlady shriek'd, her Daughter wept, Mari­tornes howl'd, Dorothea was distracted with Fear, Lucinda could not tell what to do, and Donna Clara was strangely frighted; the Barber pummell'd Sancho, and Sancho belabour'd the Barber. One of Don Lewis's Servants went to hold him, but he gave him such a Rebuke on his Jaws, that his Teeth had like to have forsook their Station; and then the Judge took him into his Protection. Don Fer­dinand had got one of the Officers down, and laid him on Back and Side. The Inn-keeper still cry'd our, Help the Holy Brotherhood; so that the whole House was a Medley of Wailings, Cries, Shrieks, Confusions, Fears, Terrors, Disasters, Slashes, Buffets, Blows, Kicks, Cuffs, Battery, and Blood­shed.

In the greatest Heat of this Hurly-burly it came into Don Quixote's Head, that he was certainly involv'd in the Disorder and Confusion of King Agramant's Camp; and calling out, with a Voice that shook the whole House, Hold valorous Knights, said he, all hold your furious Hands, [Page 562] sheath all your Swords, let none presume to stribe on Pain of Death, but hear me speak. The loud and monstrous Voice surpriz'd every Body into O­bedience, and the Don proceeded: I told you be­fore, Gentlemen, that this Castle was inchanted, and that some Legion of Devils did inhabit it; now let your own Eyes confirm my Words: Don't you behold the strange and horrid Confusion of King Agramant's Army remov'd hither, and put in Execution among us? See, see how there they fight for the Sword, and yonder for the Horse; behold how some contend for the Helmet, and here others battel it for the Standard; and all fight we don't know how, nor can tell why. Let there­fore my Lord Judge, and his Reverence Mr. Cu­rate represent, one, King Agramant, and the other, King Sobrino; and by their Wisdom and Conduct, appease this Tumult; for, by the Powers Divine, 'twere a wrong to Honour, and a blot on Chivalry, to let so many Worthies, as here engage, fall on so slight a Cause.

Don Quixote's words were Hebrew to the Offi­cers, who having been roughly handl'd by Car­denio, Ferdinand, and his Friends, would not give it over so. But the Barber was content, for Sancho had demolish'd his Beard and Pack-saddle both in the Scuffle: The Squire dutifully retreated at the first sound of his Master's Voice; Don Lewis's Servants were calm, finding it their best way to be quiet; but the Inn-keeper was refractory. He swore that Mad-man ought to be punish'd for his ill-behaviour, and that every Hour he was making some Disturbance or another in his House. But at last, the Matter was made up, the Pack-saddle was agreed to be Horse-Furniture, the Bason a Helmet, and the Inn a Castle, till the Day of Judgment, if Don Quixote would have it so. Don [Page 563] Lewis's Business came next in play. The Judge, in concert with Don Ferdinand, Cardenio, and the Curate, resolv'd, That Don Ferdinand should in­terpose his Authority on Don Lewis's behalf, and let his Servants know, That he would carry him to Andalusia, where he should be entertain'd ac­cording to his Quality by his Brother the Mar­quess, and they should not oppose this Design, see­ing Don Lewis was positively resolv'd not to be forc'd to go back to his Father yet. Don Ferdi­nand's Quality, and Don Lewis's Resolution pre­vail'd on the Fellows to order Matters so, that three of them might return, to acquaint their old Master, and the fourth wait on Don Lewis. Thus this monstrous heap of Confusion and Disorder was digested into Form by the Authority of Agra­mant, and Wisdom of King Sobrino.

But the Enemy of Peace, finding his Project of setting them all by the Ears so elluded, resolv'd once again to have another Trial of Skill, and play the Devil with them all the second bout: For though the Officers understanding the Quali­ty of their Adversaries were willing to desist, yet one of them, whom Don Ferdinand had kick'd most unmercifully, remembring that among other Warrants, he had one to apprehend Don Quixote for setting free the Galley-Slaves (which Sancho was sadly afraid would come about,) he resolv'd to examine if the Marks and Tokens given of Don Quixote agreed with this Person; then draw­ing out a Parchment, and opening his Warrant, he made a shift to read it, at every other word looking cunningly on Don Quixote's Face; where­upon, having folded up the Parchment, and ta­king his Warrant in the Left-hand, he clap'd his Right hand fast in the Knight's Collar, crying you're the King's Prisoner: Gentlemen, I am an [Page 564] Officer, here's my Warrant. I charge you all to aid and assist the Holy Brother-hood. Don Quixote find­ing himself us'd so rudely by one whom he took to be a pitiful Scoundrel, kindl'd up into such a Rage, that he shook with Indignation; and catch­ing the Fellow by the Neck, with both his Hands, throttl'd him so eagerly, that if his Companions had not presently freed him, the Knight would have squeez'd out his Life before he had quitted his hold.

The Inn-keeper being oblig'd to assist his Bro­ther-Officer, presently joyn'd him: The Hostess seeing her Husband engaging a second time, rais'd a new Out-cry, her Daughter and Maritornes bore the burden of the Song, sometimes praying, some­times crying, sometimes scolding: Sancho seeing what pass'd, By the Lord, said he, my Master is in the right; this Place is Haunted, that's certain; there's no living quietly an Hour together. At last Don Ferdinand parted Don Quixote and the Officer, who were both pretty well pleas'd to quit their Bargain. However, the Officers still de­manded their Prisoner, and to have him deliver'd bound into their Hands, commanding all the Company a second Time to help and assist them, in securing that publick Robber upon the King's high Road.

Don Quixote smil'd at the suppos'd Simplicity of the Fellows; at last with solemn Gravity, Come hither, said he, you Off-spring of Filth, and Ex­traction of Dunghills, dare you call loosing the Fetter'd, freeing the Captiv'd, helping the Mise­rable, raising the Fall'n, and supplying the Indi­gent dare you, I say, base-spirited Rascals, call these Actions Robbery? Your Thoughts indeed are too grovelling and servile to understand, or reach the Pitch of Chivalry, otherwise you had un­derstood [Page 565] that even the Shadow of a Knight-Errant had Claim to your Adoration. You a Band of Offi­cers; you're a Pack of Rogues indeed, and Rob­bers on the High-way by Authority. What Block­head of a Magistrate durst issue out a Warrant to Apprehend a Knight-Errant like me? Could not his Ignorance find out that we are exempt from all Courts of Judicature? That our Valour is the Bench, our Will the Common-Law, and our Sword the Executioner of Justice. Could not his Dul­ness inform him that no Rank of Nobility or Pee­rage enjoys more Immunities and Privileges? Has he any President that a Knight-Errant ever paid Taxes, Subsidy, Poll-Money, or so much as Fare or Ferry? What Taylor ever had Money for his Cloaths, or what Constable ever made him pay a Reckoning for his Lodging in his Castle? What Kings are not proud of his Company, and what Damsels of his Love? And lastly, did you ever read of any Knight-Errant that ever was, is, or shall be, that could not with his single Force Cudgel four hundred such Rogues as you to pieces, if they have the Impudence to Oppose him?

CHAP. XIX. The notable Adventure of the Officers of the Holy Brotherhood, with Don Quixote's great Ferocity and Inchantment.

WHilst Don Quixote talk'd at this rate, the Curate endeavour'd to perswade the Offi­cers that he was distracted, as they might easily [Page 566] gather from his Words and Actions, and therefore though they should carry him before a Magistrate, he would be presently acquitted, as being a Mad­man: He that had the Warrant made Answer, That 'twas not his Business to examine whether he were mad or not; he was an Officer in Com­mission, and must obey Orders; but if the Supe­riour Power would acquit him, with all his Heart. But for all that the Curate persisted, assuring them, that they should not be suffer'd to carry Don Quixote away this Time; and in short, said so much, and the Knight did so much; that they had been greater Fools than he, could they not have plainly seen his Madness. They therefore not on­ly desisted, but offer'd their Service in compound­ing the Difference between Sancho and the Barber; their Mediation was accepted, they being Officers of Justice, and succeeded so well, that both Par­ties stood to their Arbitration, though not entirely satisfied with their Award, which order'd them to change their Pannels, but not their Halters, nor the Girths. The Curate made up the Business of the Bason, paying the Barber under-hand eight Reals for his Interest, and getting a general Re­lease under his Hand of all Claims or Actions con­cerning it. These two important Differences be­ing so happily decided, the only Obstacle to a Ge­neral Peace were Don Lewis's Servants, and the Inn-keeper; the first were at last prevail'd upon to accept the Proposals offer'd, which were, that three of them should go home, and the fourth at­tend Don Lewis, where Don Ferdinand should ap­point. Thus this Difference was also made up, to the unspeakable Joy of Donna Clara. The Inn-keeper made a hideous Bawling; having disco­ver'd that the Barber had receiv'd Money for his Bason; he knew no Reason, he said, why he [Page 567] should not be paid as well as other Folks, and swore that Rozinante and Sancho's Ass, should pay for their Master's Extravagance before they should leave his Stable: The Curate pacify'd him, and Don Ferdinand paid him his Bill. Zoraida not well understanding how Matters pass'd, was inter­changeably merry or sad, according to the Shew made by the rest, but the Motions of her Spa­niard (on whom her Eyes were always fix'd) chief­ly influenc'd her Affections. All things thus ac­commodated, the Inn no longer resembled the Confusion of Agramant's Camp; but appear'd hush'd in the general Calm of Peace; upon which the Curate and Don Ferdinand, by universal Con­sent, had the Thanks of the House; as a just Ac­knowledgment for their so effectual Mediation.

Don Quixote being now free from the Difficulties and Delays that lately embarrass'd him, held it high time to prosecute his Voyage, and bring to some Decision the general Enterprize which he had the Voice and Election for. He therefore ful­ly resolv'd to press his Departure, and fell on his Knees before Dorothea, but she would not hear him in that Posture, but prevail'd upon him to rise: He then addressing her in his usual Forms; Most beautiful Lady, said he, 'tis a known Proverb, That Diligence is the Mother of Success; and we have found the greatest Successes in War still to depend on Expedition and Dispatch, by preventing the Ene­my's Design, and forcing a Victory before an As­sault is expected. My Inference from this, most high and illustrious Lady, is, that our Residence in this Castle appears nothing conducive to our De­signs, but may prove dangerous; for we may rea­sonably suppose that our Enemy the Gyant may learn by Spies or some other secret Intelligence, the Scheme of our Intentions, and consequntly [Page 568] fortify himself in some inexpugnable Fortress a­gainst the Power of our most prevailing Force, where the Strength of my invincible Arm may be uneffectual. Let us therefore, dear Madam, by our Diligence and sudden Departure hence, pre­vent any such his Designs, and force our good For­tune, by missing no Opportunity that we may lay hold of. Here he stopt waiting the Princess's An­swer. She with a grave Aspect, and Stile suiting his Extravagance, reply'd, The great Inclination and indefatigable Desire you shew, worthy Knight, in redressing the injur'd and restoring the oppress'd, lay a fair Claim to the Praises and universal Thanks of Mankind; but your singular Concern, and in­dustrious Application in assisting me, deserve my particular Acknowledgments and Gratification; and I shall make it my peculiar Request to Hea­ven, that your generous Designs, in my favour, may be soon accomplish'd, that I may be enabl'd to convince you of the Honour and Gratitude that may be found in some of our Sex. As to our Departure, I shall depend upon your Pleasure, to whose Management I have not only committed the Care of my Person, but also resign'd the whole Power of Command. Then, by the Assistance of the Divine Power, answer'd he, I will lose no Op­portunity of exalting your Highness, which you thus condescend to humble to my Orders; let our March be sudden, for the Eagerness of my Desires, the Length of the Journey, and the Dan­gers of Delay, are great Spurs to my Dispatch; depending therefore on the Vigour of my Cou­rage, which neither Danger nor Hell can daunt, fly, Sancho, saddle Rozinante, harness your Ass, and make ready the Lady's Palfrey; let us take leave of the Governour here, and these other Lords, and set out from hence immediately.

[Page 569]Poor Sancho hearing all that pass'd, shook his Head. Lord, Lord, Master, said he, there's al­ways more Tricks in a Town than are talk'd of (with Reverence be it spoken.) Ho! Villain, cry'd Don Quixote; What Tricks can any Town or City shew to impair my Credit? Nay, Sir, quoth Sancho, if you grow Angry, I can hold my Tongue, if that be all; but there are some things which you ought to hear, and I should tell as be­comes a trusty Squire and honest Servant. Say what thou wilt, said the Knight, so it tend not to Cowardise; for if thou art afraid, keep it to thy self, and trouble not me with the mention of Fear which my Soul abhors. Pshaw, hang Fear, Sir, answer'd Sancho, that's not the Matter; but I must tell you, Sir, that which is as certain and plain as the Nose on your Face. This same Madam here that calls her self the Queen of the great Kingdom of Micomicon, is no more a Queen than my Gran­dame. For, do but consider, Sir, if she were such a fine Queen, as you believe, can you imagine she wou'd always be kissing and slabbering a certain Person that shall be nameless in this Company? Dorothea blush'd at Sancho's Words, for Don Ferdi­nand had indeed, sometimes and in private, taken the Freedom with his Lips, to reap some part of the Reward his Affection deserv'd; which Sancho spying by chance, made some Constructions upon it, very much to the Disadvantage of her Royal­ty; for in short he concluded her no better than a Woman of Pleasure: She nevertheless wou'd take no Notice of his Aspersion, but let him go on. I say this, Sir, continu'd he, because after our trudging thro' all Weathers, fair after foul, Day after Night, and Night after Day, this same Person in the Inn here, is like to divert himself at our Expence, and to gather the Fruit of our La­bours? [Page 570] I think therefore, Master, there is no Rea­son, d'ye see, for Saddling Rozinante, Harnessing my Ass, or making ready the Lady's Palfrey; for we had better stay where we are; and let every Whore Brew as she Bakes, and every Man that is Hungry go to Dinner?

Heavens! Into what a Fury did these disrespect­ful Words of Sancho put the Knight? his whole Bo­dy shook, his Tongue faultr'd, his Eyes glow'd. Thou Villanous, Ignorant, Rash, Unmannerly Blasphemous Detractor, said he, how dar'st thou entertain such Base and Dishonourable Thoughts, much more utter thy Rude and Contemptible Sus­picions before me and this Honourable Presence? away from my Sight, thou Monster of Nature, Magazine of Lies and Deceits, Publisher of Fol­lies, Foe of all Honour! Away, and never let me see thy Face again, on Pain of my most furious In­dignation. Then bending his sowr Brows, pussing his Cheeks, and stamping on the Ground, he gave Sancho such a Look as almost frighted the poor Fel­low to Annihilation.

In the height of this Consternation, all that the poor Squire could do, was to turn his Back, and sneak out of the Room. But Dorothea knowing the Knight's Temper, undertook to mitigate his Anger: Sir Knight of the Woful Figure, said she, asswage your Wrath, I beseech you; 'tis be­low your Dignity to be offended at these idle Words of your Squire; and I dare not affirm, but that he has some Colour of Reason for what he said; for it were uncharitable to suspect his sincere Understanding and honest Principles, of any false or malicious Slanders or Accusation. We must therefore search deeper into this Affair, and be­lieve, That as you have found all Transactions in this Castle Govern'd by Inchantments, so some di­abolical [Page 571] Illusion has appear'd to Sancho, and repre­sented to his Inchanted Sight what he asserts to my Dishonour. Now by the Powers supreme, said the Knight, your Highness has cut the Knot. The Misdemeanour of that poor Fellow must be attributed purely to Inchantment, and the Power of some malicious Apparition; for the good Na­ture and Simplicity of the poor Wretch could ne­ver invent a Lie, or be guilty of an Aspersion to any one's Disadvantage. 'Tis evident, said Don Ferdinand, we therefore all intercede in behalf of honest Sancho, that he may be again restor'd to your Favour, Sicut erat in Principio, before these Il­lusions had impos'd upon his Sense. Don Quixote comply'd, and the Curate brought in poor Sancho trembling, who on his Knees made an humble Acknowledgment of his Crime, and begg'd to have his Pardon confirm'd by a gracious Kiss of his Master's Hand. Don Quixote gave him his Hand and his Blessing. Now Sancho, said he, will you hereafter believe what I so often have told you, that the Power of Inchantment over-rules every thing in this Castle? I will, and like your Worship, quoth Sancho, all but my tossing in a Blanket; for really, Sir, that happen'd according to the ordinary Course of things. Believe it not, Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote, for were I not con­vinc'd of the contrary, you should have plentiful Revenge; but neither then, nor now, could I e­ver find any Object to reek my Fury or Resent­ment on. Every one desir'd to know what was the Business in Question; whereupon the Inn-keeper gave them an Account of Sancho's Tossing, which set them all a Laughing, and would have made Sancho angry, had not his Master afresh assur'd him that 'twas only a meer Illusion, which, though the Squire believ'd not, he held his Tongue. The [Page 572] whole Company having pass'd two Days in the Inn, bethought themselves of departing; and the Curate and Barber found out a Device to carry home Don Quixote, without putting Don Ferdinand and Dorothea to the Trouble of humouring his Im­pertinence any longer. They first agreed with a Waggoner that went by with his Team of Oxen, to carry him home: Then had a kind of a Wooden Cage made, so large that the Knight might conve­niently sit, or lie in it. Presently after, all the Com­pany of the Inn disguis'd themselves, some with Masks, others by disfiguring their Faces, and the rest by Change of Apparel, so that Don Quixote shou'd not take them to be the same Persons. This done, they all silently entr'd his Chamber, where he slept very soundly after his late Fatigues: They immediately laid hold on him so forcibly, and held his Arms and Legs so hard, that he was not able to stir, or do any thing but stare on those strange Shapes which stood round him. This instantly confirm'd him in the strange Fancy that had so long disturb'd his craz'd Understanding, and made him believe himself undoubtedly Inchanted; and those frightful Figures to be the Spirits and Dae­mons of the Inchanted Castle. So far the Cu­rate's Invention succeeded to his Expectation. San­cho, being the only Person there in his right Shape and Senses, beheld all this very patiently, and tho' he knew them all very well, yet was resolv'd to see the end on't e're he ventur'd to speak his Mind. His Master likewise said nothing, patient­ly expecting his Fate, and waiting the Event of his Misfortune. They had by this, lifted him out of Bed, and placing him in the Cage, they shut him in, and Nail'd the Bars of it so fast, that no small Strength cou'd force them open. Then mounting him on their Shoulders, as they con­vey'd [Page] [Page]

[Page 573] him out of the Chamber-Door, they heard as dreadful a Voice as the Barber's Lungs cou'd bellow, speak these Words.

Be not impatient, O Knight of the Woeful Fi­gure, at your Imprisonment, since 'tis ordain'd by the Fates, for the more speedy Accomplish­ment of that most noble Adventure, which your incomparable Valour has intended. For accom­plish'd it shall be, when the rampant Manchegan Lyon, and the white Tobosian Dove shall be uni­ted, by humbling their lofty and erected Crests to the soft Yoke of Wedlock, from whose wonderful Coition shall spring, to light the World, fierce Whelps which shall imitate the ravaging Paws of their valorous Sire. And this shall happen before the bright Pursuer of the fugitive Nymph shall by his rapid and natural Course take a double Cir­cumference in Visitation of the Luminous Signs. And thou, the most noble and faithful Squire that ever had Sword on Thigh, Beard on Face, or Sense of Smell in Nose, be not dispirited or dis­contented at this Captivity of the Flower of all Chivalry; for very speedily, by the eternal Will of the World's Creator, thou shalt find thy self en­nobl'd and exalted beyond the Knowledge of thy Greatness. And I confirm to thee, from the Sage Mentironiana, that thou shalt not be defrauded of the Promises made by thy noble Lord. I therefore conjure thee to follow closely the Steps of the couragious and inchanted Knight; for it is neces­sarily enjoin'd that you both go where you both shall stay. The Fates have commanded me no more, farewel. For I now return, I well know whither.

The Barber manag'd the Cadence of his Voice so artificially towards the latter end of his Pro­phecy [Page 574] that even those who were made acquainted with the Jest, had almost taken it for Supernatural.

Don Quixote was much comforted at the Pro­phecy, apprehending presently the Sense of it, and applying it to his Marriage with Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose happy Womb should issue the Cubbs, (signifying his Sons) to the eternal Glory of La Mancha; upon the Strength of which Belief raising his Voice, and heaving a profound Sigh. What­soever thou art, said he, whose happy Prognosti­cation I own and acknowledge, I desire thee to implore (in my Name) the wise Magician, whose Charge I am, that his Power may protect me in this Captivity, and not permit me to perish before the Fruition of these grateful and incomparable Promises made to me; for the Confirmation of such Hopes, I wou'd think my Prison a Palace, my Fetters Freedom, and this hard Field-Bed on which I lie, more easy than the softest Down, or most luxurious Lodgings. And as to the Conso­lation offer'd my Squire Sancho Pança, I am so convinc'd of his Honesty, and he has prov'd his Honour in so many Adventures, that I mistrust not his deserting me through any Change of For­tune. And tho' his or my harder Stars shou'd dis­able me from bestowing on him the Island I have promis'd, or some Equivalent; his Wages at least are secur'd to him by my last Will and Testament, tho' what he will receive, is more answerable, I confess to my Estate and Ability, than to his Ser­vices and great Deserts. Sancho Pança made him three or four very respectful Bowes, and kiss'd both his Hands; (for one alone he cou'd not, being both ty'd together) and in an Instant the Daemons hoisted up the Cage, and yoak'd it very handsome­ly to the Team of Oxen.

CHAP. XX. Prosecuting the Course of Don Quixote's In­chantment, with other Memorable Occur­rences.

DON Quixote was not so much amaz'd at his Inchantment, as the Manner of it: Among all the Volumes of Chivalry that I have turn'd over, said he, I never read before of Knight-Errants drawn in Carts, or tugg'd along so leasurely by such sloathful Animals as Oxen. For they us'd to be hurry'd along with prodigious speed, invelop'd in some dark and dusky Cloud; or in some Fiery Chariot drawn by Wing'd Griffins, or some such expeditious Creatures; tho' perhaps the Inchantments of our Times, take a different Method from those in former Ages. Or rather the Wise Magicians have invented some new Course in their Proceedings for me, being the first reviver and restorer of Arms, which have so long been lost in Oblivion, and rusted thro' the disuse of Chivalry. What is thy Opinion, my dear Sancho? Why truly, Sir, said Sancho, I can't tell what to think, being not so well read in these Matters as your Worship, yet for all that I'm positive and can take my Oath on't, that these same Visions that run up and down here are not Orthodox. Orthodox, my Friend, said Don Quixote, how can they be Orthodox, when they are Devils, and have only assum'd these Phan­tastical [Page 576] Bodies to surprise us into this Condition? To convince you, endeavour to touch them, and you will find, their Substances are not material, but only subtle Air, and outward Appearance. Gadzookers, Sir, said Sancho, I have touch'd them, and touch'd them again, Sir; and I find this same busie Devil here, that's fidling about, is as plump and fat as a Capon: Besides, he has another pro­perty, very different from a Devil; for the Devils, they say, smell of Brimstone and other filthy Things, and this Spark has such a fine scent of Essence about him, that you may feel him at least half a League. (Meaning Don Ferdinand, who in all probability, like other Gentlemen of his Quality, had his Cloathes Perfum'd.)

Alas, honest Sancho, answer'd Don Quixote, the Cunning of these Fiends is above the reach of thy Simplicity; for you must know, that Spirits, as Spirits, have no Scent at all; and if they shou'd, it must necessarily be some Unsavory Stench, be­cause they still carry their Hell about them, and the least of a Perfume or grateful Odour were in­consistent with their Torments; so that this Mistake of yours must be attributed to some farther Delusion of your Sense. Don Ferdinand, and Cardenio, upon these Discourses between Master and Man, were affraid that Sancho wou'd spoil all, and therefore order'd the Inn-keeper privately to get ready Rozinante and Sancho's Ass; while the Curate agreed with the Officers for so much a Day to Conduct them home. Cardenio having hung Don Quixote's Target on the Pummel of Rozinante's Saddle, and the Bason on t'other side, he signify'd to Sancho by Signs that he shou'd mount his Ass, and lead Rozinante by the Bridle, and lastly plac'd two Officers with their Fire-Locks on each side of the Cart.

[Page 577]Being just ready to March, the Hostess, her Daughter, and Maritornes, came to the Door to take their leave of the Knight, pretending unsupport­able Grief for his Misfortune. Restrain your Tears, most Honourable Ladies, said Don Quixote, for these Mischances are incident to those of my Profession; and from these Misfortunes it is, we Date the greatness of our Glory and Renown; they are the Effects of Envy, which still attend Vertuous and great Actions, and brought upon us by the in­direct means of such Princes and Knights as are emulous of our Dignity and Fame; but spight of all Oppression, spight of all the Magick that ever its first Inventor Z [...]roaster understood, Virtue will come off victorious; and triumphing over every Danger, will at last shine out in its proper Lustre like the Sun to inlighten the World. Pardon me, fair Ladies, if (thro' Ignorance or Omission of the Respects due to your Qualities) I have not behav'd my self to please you; for to the best of my know­ledge I never committed a wilful Wrong. And I crave the assistance of your Prayers towards my en­largement from this Prison, which some malicious Magician has confin'd me to; and the first Busi­ness of my Freedom, shall be a grateful Acknow­ledgment for the many and obliging Favours con­ferr'd upon me in this your Castle. Whilst the Ladies were thus entertain'd by Don Quixote; the Curate and Barber, were busie taking their leaves of their Company, and after mutual Complements and Embraces they engag'd to acquaint one another with their succeeding Fortunes. Don Ferdinand en­treated the Curate to give him a particular Re­lation of Don Quixote's Adventures, assuring him, That nothing wou'd be a greater Obligation; and in Return, he engag'd to inform him of all Oc­currences in his own and Lucinda's Return; with [Page 578] an Account of Zoraida's Baptism, and Don Lewis's Success in his Amour.

The Curate having given his Word and Honour to satisfie Don Ferdinand; And the last Comple­ments being past, was just going, when the Inn-keeper made him a proffer of a bundle of Papers found in the folds of the same Cloak-Bag, where he got the Curious Impertinent, telling him withal, That they were all at his Service; because since the Owner was not like to come and demand them, and he cou'd not Read, they cou'd not better be dispos'd of. The Curate thank'd him heartily, and opening the Papers found them Entitl'd, The Story of Rinconete, and Cortadillo; the Title shewing it to be a Novel, and probably written by the Author of the Curious Impertinent, because found in the same Wallet, he put it in his Pocket, with a Resolution to peruse it the very first Oppor­tunity: Then mounting with his Friend the Barber, and both putting on their Masks, they follow'd the Procession, which march'd in this Order. The Carter led the Van, and next his Cart, slank'd on right and left with two Officers and their Fire-Locks, then follow'd Sancho on his Ass, leading Rozinante, and lastly the Curate and Barber on their mighty Mules brought up the Rear of the Body, all with a grave and profound Air, marching no faster than their heavy Oxen allow'd. Don Quixote sat leaning against the back of the Cage with his Hands ty'd, and his Legs at length; but so silent and motionless, that he seem'd rather a Statue than a Man.

They had Travell'd about two Leagues this slow and leisurely pace, when their Conductor stopping in a little Valley, propos'd it as a sit Place to Bait in; but he was prevail'd upon to defer halting a little longer, being inform'd by the Barber of a [Page 579] certain Valley beyond a little Hill in their View, better stor'd with Grass, and more convenient for their purpose: They had not Travell'd much farther, when the Curate spy'd coming a round Pace after them six or seven Men very well moun­ted; they appear'd by their haste to endeavour be­fore the Heat of the Day to reach their Inn, which was about a League farther. In short, they soon came up with our slow Itinerants; and one of them that was Canon of Toledo, and Master of those that came along with him, marking the formal Pro­cession of the Cart, Guards, Sancho, Rozinante, the Curate, and the Barber; but chiefly the incag'd Don Quixote, cou'd not forbear asking what meant their strange Method of securing that Man; tho' he already believ'd (having observ'd the Guards) that he was some notorious Criminal in custody of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the Fraternity told him, That he cou'd not tell the Cause of that Knight's Imprisonment, but that he might answer for himself, because he best cou'd tell.

Don Quixote over-hearing their Discourse, Gen­tlemen, said he, if you are conversant and skill'd in Matters of Knight-Errantry, I will communicate my Misfortunes to you; if you are not, I have no reason to give myself the trouble. Truly Friend, answer'd the Canon, I am better acquainted with Books of Chivalry than with Villalpando's Summu­lae; and if that be all your Objection, you may safely impart to me what you please. With Hea­ven's permission be it so, said Don Quixote; you must then understand, Sir Knight, that I am born away in this Cage by the force of Inchantments thro' the envious Spight and Malice of some cursed Magicians; for Virtue is more zealously persecuted by ill Men, than 'tis belov'd by the Good. I am, by Profession, a Knight-Errant, and none of those, [Page 580] I assure you, whose Deeds never merited a place in the Records of Fame; but one who in spight of Envy's self, in spight of all the Magi of Persia, the Brachmans of India, or the Gymnosophists of Ethiopia, shall secure to his Name a place in the Temple of Immortality, as a Pattern and Model to following Ages; that ensuing Knight-Errants following my Steps, may be guided to the top and highest pitch of Heroic Honour: The noble Don Quixote de la Mancha speaks truth, said the Curate coming up to the Company, he is indeed inchanted in this Cart, not thro' his own Demerits or Of­fences, but the malicious Treachery of those whom Vertue displeases and Valour offends. This is, Sir, the Knight of the woful Figure, of whom you have undoubtedly heard, whose mighty Deeds shall stand engrav'd in lasting Brass and time-sur­viving Marble, till Envy grows tir'd with La­bouring to deface his Fame, and Malice to con­ceal 'em.

The Canon hearing the Prisoner and his Guard talk thus in the same Style, was in amaze, and bless'd himself for wonder, as did the rest of the Company; till Sancho Pança coming up, to mend the Matter, Look ye, Sirs, said he, I will speak the truth, take it well, or take it ill. My Master here, is no more inchanted than my Mother: He's in his sober Sences, he eats and drinks, and does his Needs, like other Folks, and as he us'd to do; and yet you'll perswade me that a Man, who can do all this, is in­chanted forsooth; he can speak too, for if you'll let him alone, he'll prattle you more than thirty Attorneys. Then turning towards the Curate, O Mr. Curate, Mr. Curate, continu'd he, do you think I don't know you, and that I don't guess what all these new Inchantments drive at! Yes I do know you well enough, for all you hide your [Page 581] Face; and understand your Design, for all your sly Tricks, Sir. But 'tis an old Saying, There's no striving against the Stream; and the Weakest still goes to the Wall. The Devil take the luck on't; had not your Reverence spoil'd our sport, my Master had been marry'd before now to the Princess Micomicona, and I had been an Earl at least; nay that I was sure of, had the worst come to the worst; but the old Proverb is true again, Fortune turns round like a Mill Wheel, and he that was yesterday at the top, lyes to day at the bottom. I wonder, Mr. Curate, you that are a Clergyman shou'd not have more Conscience; consider, Sir, that I have a Wife and Family who expect all to be great Folks, and my Master here is to do a World of good Deeds; and don't you think, Sir, that you won't be made to answer for all this one day. Snuff me those Candles said the Barber, hearing Sancho talk at this rate, What, Fool! are you brainsick of your Master's Disease too? if you be, you're like to bear him Company in his Cage I'll assure you Friend. What inchanted Island is this that floats in your Scull, or what Succubus has been riding thy Fancy, and got it with Child of these Hopes? With Child! Sir, what dy'e mean Sir, said Sancho, I scorn your Words, Sir; the best Lord in the Land shou'd not get me with Child, no, not the King himself, Heaven bless him. For tho' I'm a poor Man, yet I'm an honest Man, and an old Christian, and don't owe any Man a Farthing; and tho' I desire Islands, there are o [...]her Folks, not far off, that desire worse things. Every one is the Son of his own Works; I am a Man and may be Pope of Rome, much sooner Governour of an Island, especially considering my Master may gain so many as he may want Persons to bestow 'em on. There­fore pray Mr. Barber take heed what you say; for [Page 582] all consists not in shaving of Beards, and there's some difference between a Hawk and a Hand-saw. I say so, because we all know one another, and no Body shall put a false Card upon me. As to my Master's Inchantment let it stand, as it is, Heaven knows best; and a Stink is still worse for the stirring. The Barber thought Silence the best way to quiet Sancho's Impertience; and the Curate, doubting that he might spoil all, intreated the Canon to put on a little before, and he wou'd un­fold the Mistery of the encag'd Knight, which perhaps he would find one of the pleasantest Stories he had ever heard: The Canon rid forward with him, and his Men follow'd, while the Curate made them a Relation of Don Quixote's Life and Quality, and Madness and Adventures, with the original Cause of his Distraction, and the whole Progress of his Adventures till his being shut up in the Cage, to get him home in order to have him cur'd. They all admir'd at this strange Account, and then the Canon turning to the Curate.

Believe me, Mr. Curate, said he, I am fully con­vinc'd that these they call Books of Knight-Er­rantry, are very prejudicial to the Publick. And tho' I have been led away by an idle and false Pleasure, to read the beginnings of almost as many of 'em as have been Printed, I could never yet perswade my self to go through with any one to the end; for to me they all seem to contain one and the same thing, and there is as much in one of them as in all the rest. The whole Compositi­on and Style resemble that of the Milesian Fables, which are a sort of idle Stories, design'd only for Diversion, and not for Instruction. It is not so with those Fables which are call'd Apologues, that at once delight and instruct. But tho' the main design of such Books is to please, [Page 583] yet I cannot conceive how it is possible they should perform it, being fill'd with such a multitude of unaccountable Extravagancies. For the Pleasure which strikes the Soul must be deriv'd from the Beauty and Congruity it sees or conceives in those things the Sight or Imagination lays be­fore it; and nothing in it self deformed or incon­gruous, can give us any real Satisfaction. Now what Beauty can there be, or what Proportion of the Parts to the whole, or of the whole to the several Parts, in a Book, or Fable, where a Stripling at Sixteen Years of Age, at one Cut of a Sword, cleaves a Giant as tall as a Steeple through the middle, as easily as if he were made of Past­board? Or when they give us the Relation of a Battle, having said the Enemy's Power consisted of a Million of Combatants; yet provided the Hero of the Book be against them, we must of necessity, tho' never so much against our Inclination, con­ceive that the said Knight obtain'd the Victory only by his own Valour and the Strength of his powerful Arm? And what shall we say of the great ease and facility with which an absolute Queen or Empress casts her self into the Arms of an Errant and unknown Knight? What Mortal not altogether barbarous and unpolish'd can be pleas'd to read, that a great Tower full of armed Knights cuts through the Sea like a Ship before the Wind; and setting out in the Evening from the Coast of Italy, lands by break of Day in Prester John's Country, or in some other never known to Ptolomy or dis­cover'd by Columbus? If it should be answer'd, That those Persons who Compose these Books, write them as confess'd Lies; and therefore are not oblig'd to observe Niceties, or have regard to Truth; I shall make this Reply, That False-hood is so much the more commendable, by how much [Page 584] it more resembles Truth, and is the more pleasing, the more it is doubtful and possible. Fabulous Tales ought to be suited to the Reader's Under­standing, being so contriv'd that all Impossibilities ceasing, all great Accidents appearing easie, and the Mind wholly hanging in suspence, they may at once surprize, astonish, please and divert; so that Pleasure and Admiration may go Hand in Hand. This cannot be perform'd by him that flies from Proba­bility and Imitation, which is the Perfection of what is written. I have not yet seen any Book of Knight-Errantry, that composes an entire Body of a Fable with all its Parts, so that the middle is an­swerable to the beginning, and the end to the be­ginning and middle; but on the contrary, they form them of so many Limbs, that they rather seem to design a Chimera or Monster, than a well proportion'd Figure. Besides all this, their Style is uncouth, their Exploits incredible, their Love immodest, their Civility impertinent, their Battels tedious, their Language absurd, their Voyages pre­posterous; and in short, they are altogether void of solid Ingenuity, and therefore fit to be banish'd a Christian Commonwealth, as useless and pre­judicial. The Curate was very attentive, and be­liev'd him a Man of a sound Judgment and much in the right in all he had urg'd; and therefore told him, That he being of the same Opinion, and an Enemy to Books of Knight-Errantry, had burnt all that belong'd to Don Quixote, which were a considerable number. Then he recounted to him the scrutiny he had made among them, what he had condemn'd to the Flames, and what spar'd; at which the Canon laugh'd heartily, and said, That notwithstanding all the harm he had spoken of those Books, yet he found one good thing in them, which was the Subject they furnish'd a [Page 585] Man of Understanding with to exercise his Parts, because they allow a large Scope for the Pen to dilate without any check, describing Shipwrecks, Storms, Skirmishes and Battles; representing to us a brave Commander, with all the Qualifications requisite in such a one, shewing his Prudence in disappointing the Designs of the Enemy, his Eloquence in persuading or dissuading his Souldiers, his Judgment in Council, his Celerity in Executi­on, and his Valour in assailing or repulsing an Assault; laying before us sometimes a dismal and melancholly Accident, sometimes a delightful and unexpected Adventure; in one place, a beautiful, modest, discreet and reserv'd Lady; in another, a Christian-like, brave and courteous Gentleman; here a boisterous, inhuman boasting Ruffian, there an affable warlike and wise Prince; lively expres­sing the Fidelity and Loyalty of Subjects, Generosity and Bounty of Sovereigns. He may no less at times make kown his Skill in Astrology, Cosmo­graphy, Musick and Policy; and if he pleases, he cannot want an Opportunity of appearing knowing even in Necromancy. He may describe the Subtilty of Ulysses, the Piety of Aeneas, the Valour of Achilles, the Misfortunes of Hector, the Treachery of Sinon, the Friendship of Euryalus, the Liberality of Alexander, the Valour of Caesar, the Clemency and Sincerity of Trajan, the Fidelity of Zopyrus, the Prudence of Cato; and in fine, all those Actions that may make up a compleat Hero, sometimes at­tributing them all to one Person, and at other times dividing them among many. This being so per­form'd in a grateful Stile, and with ingenious In­vention, approaching as much as possible to Truth, will doubtless compose so beautiful and various a Work, that, when finish'd, its Excellency and Perfection must attain the best end of Writing, [Page 586] which is at once to delight and instruct, as I have said before: For the loose Method practis'd in these Books, gives the Author liberty to play the Epick, the Lyrick, and the Dramatick Poet, and to run through all the other parts of Poetry and Rhetorick; for Epicks may be as well writ in Prose as in Verse.

CHAP. XXI. Containing a Continuation of the Canon's Dis­course upon Books of Knight-Errantry, and other curious Matters.

YOU are much in the right, Sir, reply'd the Curate; and therefore those who have hi­therto publish'd Books of that Kind, are the more to be blam'd, for having had no Regard to good Sense, Art or Rules; by the Observation of which they might have made themselves as famous in Prose, as the two Princes of the Greek and Latin Poetry are in Verse. I must confess, said the Ca­non, I was once tempted to write a Book of Knight-Errantry my self, observing all those Rules; and to speak the Truth, I writ above an hundred Pages, which, for a better Tryal, whether they answered my Expectation, I communicated to some Learned and Judicious Men fond of those Subjects, as well as to some of those ignorant Persons, who only are delighted with Extravagancies; and they all gave me a satisfactory Approbation. And yet I made no farther Progress, as well in regard I look upon it to be a thing no way agreeable with my Pro­fession, [Page 587] as because I am sensible the Illiterate are much more numerous than the Learned; and tho' it is better to be commended by the small Number of the Wise, than scorn'd by the ignorant Multitude, yet I will not expose my self to the Censure of the giddy Vulgar, whose principal Business it is to read such Books. But the greatest Motive I had to lay aside, and think no more of finishing it, was an Argument I form'd to my self, deduc'd from the Plays now usually acted: For, thought I, if Plays now in use, as well those which are altoge­ther of the Poet's Invention, as those that are grounded upon History, be all of them, or at least the greatest part, made up of most absurd Extra­vagancies and Incoherences; and yet the Multi­tude sees them with Satisfaction, esteems and ap­proves them, tho' they are so far from being good; if the Poets who write, and the Players who act them, say they must be so contriv'd and no other­wise, because they please the Generality of the Au­dience; and if those which are regular and accor­ding to Art, serve only to please half a score judi­cious Persons who understand them, whilst the rest of the Company cannot reach the Contrivance; and therefore the Poets and Actors say, they had rather get their Bread by the greater Number, than the Applause of the less: Then may I conclude the same will be the Success of this Book; so that when I have rack'd my Brain to observe the Rules, I shall reap no other Advantage than to be laugh'd at for my Pains. I have sometimes endeavour'd to convince the Actors that they are deceiv'd in their Opinion, and that they will draw more Com­pany and get better Credit by regular Plays, than by those preposterous Representations now in use; but they are so positive in their Humour, that no Strength of Reason, nor even Demonstration, can [Page 588] divert them from their Conceit. I remember I once was talking to one of those obstinate Fel­lows; Do you not remember, said I, that within these few Years three Tragedies were acted in Spain, written by a famous Poet of ours, which were so excellent, that they surpriz'd, delighted, and rais'd the Admiration of all that saw them, as well the Ignorant as the Judicious; and the Actors got more by those three, than by thirty of the best that have been writ since? Doubtless, Sir, said the Actor, you mean the Tragedies of Isabella, Phillis, and Alexandra? The very same, I reply'd, and do you judge whether they observ'd the Rules of the Drama, and whether by doing so they lost any thing of their Esteem, or fail'd of pleasing all sorts of People? So that the Fault lies not in the Audience's desiring Absurdities, but in those who know not how to give 'em any thing else. Nor was there any thing preposterous in several other Plays, as for Example, Ingratitude reveng'd, Numan­cia, the amorouss Merchant, and the favourable Enemy, nor in some others, compos'd by judicious Poets to their Honour and Credit, and to the Advantage of those that acted them. Much more I added, which in my Opinion, somewhat confounded, but no way satisfy'd or convinc'd him, so as to change his Opi­nion. You have touch'd upon a Subject, Sir, said the Curate, which has stirr'd up in me an old A­version I have for the Plays now in use, which is not inferior to that I bear to Books of Knight-Errantry. For whereas Plays, according to the O­pinion of Cicero, ought to be Mirrors of Humane Life, Patterns of good Manners, and the very Re­presentatives of Truth; those now acted are Mir­rors of Absurdities, Patterns of Follies, and Images of Lewdness. For instance, What can be more absurd than for the same Person to be [Page 589] brought on the Stage a Child in Swadling-bands, in the first Scene of the first Act, and to appear in the second grown a Man? What can be more ridiculous than to represent to us a fighting old Fellow, a cowardly Youth, a rhetorical Footman, a politick Page, a churlish King, and an unpolish'd Princess. What shall I say of their Regard to the Time in which those Actions they represent either might or ought to have happen'd, having seen a Play, in which the first Act began in Eu­rope, the second in Asia, 'Tis to be observed, that the Spanish Plays have only three Jornadas or Acts. and the third ended in Africk? Probably, if there had been another Act, they would have carry'd it in­to America; and thus it would have been acted in the four Parts of the World. But if Imitation be a principal part of the Dra­ma, how can any tolerable Judgment be pleas'd, when, representing an Action that happen'd in the time of King Pepin or Charlemaign, they shall attribute it to the Emperor Heraclius, and bring him in carrying the Cross into Jerusalem, and re­covering the Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey of Bouillon, there being a vast distance of time betwixt these Actions? Thus they will clap together Pieces of History in a Play of their own framing, mix­ing in it Relations of things that have happen'd to different People and in several Ages. This they do without any Contrivance that might make it the more probable, and with such visible Mis­takes as are altogether inexcusable; but the worst of it is, that there are Idiots who look upon this as Perfection, and think every thing else to be mere Pedantry. But if we look into the pious Plays, what a multitude of false Miracles shall we find in them, how many Errors and Contradictions, [Page 590] how often the Miracles wrought by one Saint at­tributed to another? Nay even in the prophane Plays, they presume to work Miracles upon the bare Imagination, and conceit that such a Super­natural Work, or a Machine, as they call it, will be Ornamental, and draw the common sort to see the Play.

These things are a reflection upon Truth it self, a less'ning of History, and a Reproach to all Spanish Wits; because Strangers, who are very exact in observing the Rules of the Drama, look upon us as an ignorant and barbarous People, when they see the Absurdities and Extravagancies of our Plays. Nor would it be any Excuse to alledge, that the principal Design of all good Govern­ments in permitting Plays to be publickly acted, is to amuse the Commonalty with some lawful Recreation, and so to divert those ill Humours which Idleness is apt to breed: And that since this end is attain'd by any sort of Plays, whether good or bad, it is needless to prescribe Laws to them, or oblige the Poets or Actors to compose and re­present such as are approv'd by them. I say that this end propos'd would be infinitely better an­swer'd by good Plays, than by bad ones. He who sees a Play that is regular and answerable to the Rules of Poetry, is pleas'd with the Comedy, in­form'd by the serious part, surpriz'd at the variety of Accidents, improv'd by the Language, warn'd by Frauds, instructed by Examples, incens'd a­gainst Vice, and enamour'd with Virtue; for a good Play must cause all these Emotions in the Soul of him that sees it, tho' he were never so in­sensible and unpolish'd. And it is absolutely im­possible that a Play which has all these Qualifica­tions, should not infinitely divert, satisfy and [Page 591] please, beyond another that wants them, as most of them do which are now usually acted. Nei­ther are the Poets who write them in Fault, for some of them are very sensible of their Errors, and capable of performing their Duty; but Plays being now altogether become Venial, they say, and with reason, that the Actors would not pur­chase them, unless they were of that Stamp; and therefore the Poet endeavours to suit the Humour of the Actor, who is to pay him for his Labour. For proof of this, let any Man observe that infinite number of Plays compos'd by an exuberant Spa­nish Wit,Lope de Vega, who writ an incre­dible number of Plays. so full of Gaity and Humour, in such lofty Verse and Language, so sententious, and to conclude, in such a ma­jestick Stile, that his Fame is spread through the Universe. Yet because he suited himself to the Fancy of the Actors, many of them have fallen short of their due Perfection, tho' some have reach'd it. Others write Plays so inconsiderately, that after they have appear'd on the Stage, the Actors have been forc'd to fly and abscond for fear of being punish'd, as it has often happen'd, for having affronted Kings and dishonour'd whole Fa­milies. These and many other ill Consequences I omit would cease, by appointing an intelligent and judicious Person at Court to examine all Plays be­fore they were acted, that is, not only those which are represented at Court, but throughout all Spain; So that without his License no Magistrate should suffer any Play to appear in publick. Thus Players would be careful to send their Plays to Court, and might then act them with safety, and those who write would be more circumspect, as standing in [Page 592] Awe of an Examiner that could judge of their Works. By these means we should be furnish'd with good Plays, and the end they are design'd for would be attain'd, the People diverted, the Spanish Wits esteem'd, the Actors secur'd, and the Government sav'd the trouble of punishing them. And if the same Person, or another, were intrusted to examine all new Books of Knight-Errantry, there is no doubt but some might be publish'd with all that Perfection you, Sir, have mention'd, to the encrease of Eloquence in our Language, to the utter extirpation of the old Books which would be born down by the new; and for the innocent Pastime, not only of idle Persons, but of those who have most Employment; for the Bow cannot always stand bent, nor can humane Frailty subsist without some lawful Recreation.

The Canon and Curate were come to this pe­riod, when the Barber, overtaking them, told the latter that this was the place he had pitch'd on for baiting, during the Heat of the Day. The Canon induc'd by the pleasantness of the Valley, and the satisfaction he found in the Curate's Conversation, as well as to be farther inform'd of Don Quixote's Adventures, bore them Company, giving order to some of his Men to ride to the next Inn; and if his Sumpter-mule were arriv'd, to send him down all Provisions to that Valley, where the coolness of the Shade, and the beauty of the Prospect gave him a fair invitation to Dine; and that they shou'd make much of themselves and their Mules with what the Inn cou'd afford.

In the mean time, Sancho having disengag'd him­self from the Curate and Barber, and finding an opportunity to speak to his Master alone, he brush'd up to the Cage where the Knight sate. [Page 593] That I may clear my Conscience, Sir, said he, 'tis fitting that I tell you the plain truth of your Inchantment here: Who, wou'd you think now, are those two Fellows that ride with their Faces cover'd? Even the Parson of our Parish, and the Barber; none else I'll assure you, Sir. And they are in a Plot against you, out of meer spight, be­cause your Deeds will be greater than theirs: This being presuppos'd, it follows, that you are not in­chanted, but only cozen'd and abus'd; and if you'll but answer me one Question fairly and squarely, you shall find this out to be a palpable Cheat, and that there is no Inchantment in the Case, but meerly your Senses turn'd topsy turvy.

Ask me what Questions you please, dear Sancho, said the Knight, and I will as willingly resolve them. But for thy Assertion, that those who guard us, are my old Companions the Curate and Barber, 'tis Illusion all. The power of Magick indeed, as it has an Art to cloath any thing in any Shape, may have dress'd these Daemons in their Appearances to infatuate thy Sense, and draw thee into such a labyrinth of Confusion, that even The­seus's Clue cou'd not extricate thee out of it; and this with a design perhaps to plunge me deeper into Doubts, and make me endanger my Under­standing in searching into the strange Contrivance of my Inchantment, which in every Circumstance is so different from all I ever read. Therefore rest satisfy'd that these are no more what thou ima­gin'st, than I am a Turk. But now to thy Ques­tions, propose them, and I will endeavour to answer.

Bless me, said Sancho, this is Madness upon Madness; but since 'tis so, answer me one Question. Tell me; as you hope to be deliver'd out of this [Page 594] Cage here, and as you hope to find your self in my Lady Dulcinea's Arms when you least think on't; as you—Conjure me no more, an­swer'd Don Quixote, but ask freely, for I have promis'd to answer punctually. That's what I want, said Sancho, and you must tell me the truth, and the whole truth, neither more nor less, upon the Honour of your Knighthood. Prithee no more of your Preliminaries or Preambles, cry'd Don Quixote, I tell thee I will Answer to a tittle. Then, said Sancho, I ask, with reverence be it spoken, whether your Worship since your being Cag'd up, or inchanted, if you will have it so, has not had a Motion, more or less, as a Man may say? I un­derstand not that Phrase, answer'd the Knight. Heighday! quoth Sancho, don't you know what I mean? Why there's ne'er a Child in our Coun­try, that understands the Christ-cross-Row, but can tell you. I mean, have you a mind to do what another can't do for you. O now I under­stand thee, Sancho, said the Knight; and to answer directly to thy Question, positively yes, very often; and therefore prithee help me out of this streight; for, to be free with you, I am not alto­gether so sweet and clean as I cou'd wish.

CHAP. XXII. A Relation of the wise Conference between Sancho and his Master.

AH! Sir, said Sancho, have I caught you at last? This is what I wanted to know from my Heart and Soul. Come, Sir, you can't deny, that when any Body is out of sorts, so as not to eat, or drink, or sleep, or do any natural Occasions that you guess, then we say commonly they're be­witch'd or so: From whence may be gather'd, that those who can eat their Meat, drink their Drink, speak when they're spoken to, and go to the Back-side when they have Occasion for't, are not be­witch'd nor inchanted. Your Conclusion is good, answer'd Don Quixote, as to one sort of Inchant­ment; but, as I said to thee, there's Variety of Inchantments, and the Changes in them thro' the Alteration of Times and Customs branch them in­to so many Parts, that 'tis impossible to fix them under the Force of any single Conclusion. In my own Conscience I am verily perswaded of my In­chantment, and this suppresses any Uneasiness in my Temper, which might arise upon any Suggestion to the contrary. To think my self thus idly and dishonourably born about in a Cage, and with held like a lazy idle Coward from the great Offices of my Function, when at this Hour perhaps hundreds [Page 596] of Wretches may want my Assistance, wou'd be unsupportable. Then your Worship's only Way, is to endeavour to get your Heels at Liberty, said Sancho. Come, Sir, let me alone, I'll get you out I warrant you; and then get you on your trusty Rozinante's Back, and a Fig for them all. The poor thing here jogs on as drooping and heartless, as if he were inchanted too. Take my Advice for once now, and if things don't go as your Heart cou'd wish, we have Time enough to creep into our Cage again, and on the Word of a loyal Squire I'll go in with you, and be content to be inchanted as long as you please.

I commit the Care of my Freedom to thy Ma­nagement, said Don Quixote: Lay Hold on the Op­portunity, Friend Sancho, and thou shalt find me ready to be govern'd in all Particulars; tho' I am still afraid thou wilt find thy Cunning strangely o­ver-reach'd in thy pretended Discovery. The Knight and Squire had laid their Plot, when they reach'd the Place that the Canon, Curate, and Barber had pitch'd upon to alight in. The Cage was taken down, and the Oxen unyoak'd to graze; when Sancho addressing the Curate, Pray, said he, will you do so much as let my Lord and Master come out a little to slack a Point, or else the Prison will not be so clean as the Presence of so worthy a Knight as my Master requires. The Curate under­standing him, answer'd that he wou'd comply, but that he fear'd Don Quixote finding himself once at Liberty, wou'd give them the Slip. I'll be Bail for him, said Sancho, Body for Body, Sir; and I, said the Canon, upon his bare Parole of Honour. That you shall have, said the Knight; besides, you need no Security beyond the Power of Art, for inchant­ed Bodies have no Free-will to dispose of them­selves, [Page 597] nor to move from one Place to another, without Permission of the Necromancer in whose Charge they are. The magical Charms might rivet 'em for three whole Centuries to one Place, and fetch 'em back swift as the Wind, should the in­chanted have fled to some other Region. Lastly, as a most convincing Argument for his Release, he urg'd, That unless they would free him, or get farther off, he would be necessitated to offend their Sense of Smelling. They guess'd his Meaning pre­sently, and gave him his Liberty; and the first use he made of it was to stretch his benum'd Limbs three or four times; then marching up to Rozinante, he slapp'd him twice or thrice on the Buttocks: I trust in Heaven, thou Flower and Glory of Horse-flesh, said he, that we shall soon be restor'd to our former Circumstances; I, mounted on thy Back, and Thou between my Legs, while I exercise the Function for which Heaven has bestow'd me on the World. Then walking a little aside with San­cho, he return'd, after a convenient Stay, much lighter in Body and Mind, and very full of his Squire's Project.

The Canon gaz'd on him, admiring his unpa­ralell'd sort of Madness, the rather, because in all his Words and Answers he display'd an excellent Judgment, and, as we have already observ'd, he only rav'd when the Discourse fell upon Knight-Errantry: Which moving the Canon to Compassi­on, when they had all seated themselves on the Grass, expecting the coming up of his Sumpter-Mule; Is it possible, Sir, said he, addressing him­self to Don Quixote, that the unhappy reading of Books of Knight-Errantry should have such an In­fluence over you as to destroy your Reason, mak­ing you believe you are now inchanted, and many [Page 598] other such Extravagancies, as remote from Truth as Truth it self is from Falshood? How is it possi­ble that human Sense shou'd conceive there ever were in the World such Multitudes of famous Knights-Errant, so many Emperors of Trebizond, so many Amadis's, Felixmartes of Hircania, Palfreys, rambling Damsels, Serpents, Monsters, Giants, un­heard of Adventures, so many sorts of Inchant­ments, so many Battles, terrible Encounters, pom­pous Habits and Tournaments, amorous Princesses, Earls, Squires, and jesting Dwarfs, so many Love-Letters and Gallantries, so many Amazonian La­dies, and, in short, such an incredible Number of extravagant Passages, as are contain'd in Books of Knight-Errantry? As for my own Particular, I con­fess, that while I read 'em, and do not reflect that they are nothing but Falshood and Folly, they give me some Satisfaction; but I no sooner remember what they are, but I cast the best of them from me, and wou'd deliver them up to the Flames if I had a Fire near me; as well deserving that Fate, like false Impostors that act contrary to the com­mon Course of Nature; and Inventors of new Sects, and a new Manner of Living, that seduce the ignorant Vulgar to give Credit to all their Ab­surdities: Nay, they presume to disturb the Brains of ingenious and well-bred Gentlemen, as appears by the Effect they have wrought on your Judgment, having reduc'd you to such a Condition, that it is necessary to shut you up in a Cage, and carry you on a Cart drawn by Oxen, like some Lion or Ti­ger that is carry'd about from Town to Town to be shewn. Have Pity on your self, good Don Quixote, retrieve your lost Judgment, and make use of those Abilities Heav'n has bless'd you with, applying your excellent Talent to some other Stu­dy, [Page 599] which may be safer for your Conscience, and more for your Honour: But if led away by your natural Inclination, you will read Books of Chi­valry and great Exploits; read in the Holy Scrip­ture the Book of Judges, where you will find won­derful Truths and glorious Actions not to be que­stion'd. Lusitania had a Viriatus, Rome a Caesar, Car­thage an Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan Gonzalez, Valentia a Cid, Andaluzia a Gonzalo Fernandes, Estremadura a Diego Garcia de Pere­des, Xerez a Garcia Perez de Vergas, Toledo a Garcilas­so, and Sevil Don Manuel de Leon; the reading of whose brave Actions diverts, instructs, pleases, and surprizes the most judicious Readers. This will be a Study worthy your Talent, and by which you will become well read in History, in love with Virtue, knowing in Goodness, improv'd in Man­ners, brave without Rashness, and cautious without Cowardice; all which will redound to the Glory of God, your own Advancement, and the Honour of the Province of La Mancha, whence I under­stand you derive your Original. Don Quixote list­en'd with great Attention to the Canon's Discourse, and perceiving he had done, after he had fix'd his Eyes on him for a considerable Space, Sir, said he, all your Discourse, I find, tends to signify to me, there never were any Knights-Errant, that all the Books of Knight-Errantry are false, fabulous, use­less, and prejudicial to the Publick; that I have done ill in reading, err'd in believing, and been much to blame in imitating them, by taking upon me the most painful Profession of Chivalry. And you deny that ever there were any Amadises of Gaul or Greece, or any of those Knights mentioned in those Books. Even as you have said, Sir, said the Canon. You also were pleas'd to add, continu'd [Page 600] Don Quixote, that those Books had been very hurt­ful to me, having depriv'd me of my Reason, and reduc'd me to be carry'd in a Cage; that therefore it wou'd be for my Advantage to take up in Time, and apply my self to the reading of other Books, where I might find more Truth, more Pleasure, and better Instruction. You are in the Right, said the Canon. Then I am satisfy'd, reply'd Don Quix­ote, you your self are the Man that raves and is in­chanted, since you have thus boldly blasphem'd a­gainst a Truth so universally receiv'd, that whosoe­ver presumes to contradict it, as you have done, deserves the Punishment you wou'd inflict on the Books, when in reading them they offend you. For it were as easy to perswade the World that the Sun does not enlighten, the Frost cool, and the Earth bear us, as that there never was an Amadis, or any of the other adventurous Knights, whose Actions are the Subject of so many Histories. What Mor­tal can perswade another, that there is no Truth in what is recorded of the Princess Floripes, and Guy of Burgundy, and of Fierabras at the Bridge of Mar­tible in the Reign of Charlemaign? which Passages, I dare swear, are as true as that now it is Day. But if this be false, you may as well say there was no Hector, nor Achilles, nor a Trojan War, nor Twelve Peers of France, nor a King Arthur of Britain, who is now converted into a Crow, and hourly expected in his Kingdom. Some also may presume to say, that the History of Guerino Meschino, and that of the Search after the Sangrial are both false, that the A­mours of Sir Tristan and Queen Iseo are Apocryphal, as well as those of Queen Guiniver and Sir Lancelot du Lake; and yet there are People living who can almost remember they have seen the old Lady Quin­tanona, who had the best Hand at filling a Glass of [Page 601] Wine of any Woman in all Britain. This I am so well assur'd of, that I can remember my Grandmo­ther by my Father's Side, whenever she saw an old Governante in her long Gown, us'd to tell me, Look yonder, Grandson, there's an old Woman looks like Dame Quintanona; whence I infer, she knew her, or at least had seen her Picture. Now, who can deny the Veracity of the History of Pier­res and the lovely Magalona, when to this Day the Pin with which the brave Pierres turn'd his wooden Horse that carry'd him through the Air, is to be seen in the King's Armory; which Pin is some­what bigger than the Thill of a Waggon, by the same Token it stands just by Babieca's Saddle. At Roncesvalles they keep Orlando's Horn, that is as big as a great Beam; whence it follows that there were Twelve Peers, that there were such Men as Pierres, and the famous Cid, besides many other adventu­rous Knights, whose Names are in the Mouths of all People. You may as well tell me, that the brave Portugues, John de Merlo, was no Knight-Er­rant; that he did not go into Burgundy, where, in the City of Ras, he fought the famous Moses Pierre, Lord of Chargny, and in the City of Basil, Moses Hen­ry de Ramestan, coming off in both Places victori­ous, and loaded with Honour. You may deny the Adventures and Combats of the two heroick Spani­ards, Pedro Barba and Gutierre Quixada, (from whose Male Line I am lineally descended) who in Burgun­dy overcame the Sons of the Earl of St. Paul. You may tell that Don Ferdinand de Guevara never went into Germany to seek Adventures, where he fought Sir George, a Knight of the Duke of Austria's Court. You may say the Tilting of Suero de Quinnones del Passo, and the Exploits of Moses Lewis de Falses against Don Gonzalo de Guzman a Castilian Knight, are meer [Page 602] Fables; and so of many other brave Actions per­form'd by Christian Knights, as well Spaniards as Foreigners, which are so authentick and true, that, I say it over again, he who denies them has nei­ther Sense nor Reason. The Canon was astonish'd at the Medley Don Quixote made of Truths and Fa­bles, and no less to see how well-read he was in all things relating to the Atchievements of Knights-Errant; and therefore, I cannot deny, Sir, answer'd he, but that there is some Truth in what you have said especially in what relates to the Spanish Knights-Errant; and I will grant there were Twelve Peers of France, yet I will not believe they perform'd all those Actions Archbishop Turpin ascribes to them: I rather imagine they were brave Gentlemen made Choice of by the Kings of France, and call'd Peers, as being all equal in Valour and Quality; or if they were not, at least they ought to have been so; and these compos'd a sort of military Order, like those of Sant Jago or Calatrava among us, into which all that are admitted are suppos'd, or ought to be, Gentlemen of Birth and known Valour. And as now we say a Knight of St. John or of Alcantara, so in those Times they said, A Knight who is one of the Twelve Peers, because they were but Twelve of this military Order. Nor is it to be doubted but that there were such Men as Bernardo del Carpio and the Cid, yet we have Reason to question whe­ther ever they perform'd those great Exploits that are ascrib'd to them. As to the Pin, Count Plerre [...]'s Pin which you spoke of, and which you say stands by Babieca's Saddle, I own my Ignorance, and con­fess I am so short-sighted, that tho' I saw the Sad­dle yet I did not perceive the Pin, which is some­what strange if it be so large as you describ'd it. 'Tis there without Doubt, reply'd Don Quixote, by [Page 603] the same Token they say it is kept in a Leathern Case to keep it from rusting. That may very well be, said the Canon, but upon the Word of a Priest I do not remember I ever saw it: Yet grant it were there, that does not enforce the Belief of so many Amadises, nor of such a Multitude of Knights-Errant as the World talks of; nor is there any Rea­son so worthy a Person, so judicious, and so well qualify'd as you are, shou'd imagine there is any Truth in the wild Extravagancies contain'd in all the fabulous nonsensical Books of Knight-Erran­try.

CHAP. XXIII. The notable Dispute between the Canon and Don Quixote; with other Matters.

VERY well, cry'd Don Quixote, then all those Books must be Fabulous, tho' licens'd by Kings, approv'd by the Examiners, read with ge­neral Satisfaction, and applauded by the better sort and the meaner, rich and poor, learned and un­learned, gentry and commonalty, and in short, by all sorts of Persons of what State and Condition soever; and tho' they carry such an Appearance of Truth, setting down the Father, Mother, Country, Kindred, Age, Place, and Actions to a tittle, and day by day, of the Knight and Knights of whom they treat? For shame Sir, continu'd he, forbear uttering such Blasphemies; and believe me, I ad­vise you to behave your self as becomes a Man of Sense, or else read them and see what Satisfaction you will receive. As for Instance, pray tell me, can there be any thing more delightful, than to read a lively Description, which as it were brings before your Eyes the following Adventure. A vast Lake of boiling Pitch, in which an infinite mul­titude of Serpents, Snakes, Crocodiles, and other sorts of fierce and terrible Creatures, are swimming and traversing backwards and forwards, appears to a Knight-Errant's Sight. Then from the midst of the Lake a most doleful Voice is heard to say these Words: O Knight, whoever thou art, who gazest [Page 605] on the dreadful Lake, if thou wilt purchase the Bliss conceal'd under these mournful Waters, make known thy Valour by casting thy self into the midst of these black burning Surges; for unless thou dost so, thou art not worthy to behold the mighty Wonders enclos'd in the seven Castles of the seven Fairies, that are seated under these gloomy Waves. And no sooner have the last Ac­cents of the Voice reach'd the Knight's Ears, but be, without making any further Reflection, or con­sidering the Danger to which he exposes himself, and even without laying aside ponderous Armour; only recommending himself to Heaven and to his Lady, plunges himself into the middle of the burning Lake; and when least he imagines it, or can guess where he shall stop, he finds himself on a sudden in the midst of verdant Fields, to which the Elisian bear no Comparison. There the Sky appears to him more transparent, and the Sun seems to shine with a redoubl'd Brightness. Next he discovers a most delightful Grove made up of beautiful shady Trees, whose Verdure and Variety regale his Sight, while his Ears are ravish'd with the wild and yet melodious Notes of an infinite Number of pretty painted Birds, that hop and bill and sport themselves on the twining Boughs. Here he spies a pleasing Rivulet, which, through its slowry Banks, glides along over the brightest Sand, and remurmurs over the whitest Pebbles that be­dimple its smooth Surface, while that, through its Liquid Chrystal, feasts the Eye with a Prospect of Gold and Orient Pearl. There he perceives an ar­tificial Fountain form'd of party-colour'd Jasper and polish'd Marble; and hard by another, con­triv'd in Grotesque, where the small Cockle-shells plac'd in orderly Confusion among the white and [Page 606] yellow Shells, and mix'd with pieces of bright Chrystal and counterfeit Emeralds, yield an agree­able Sight; so that Art imitating Nature, seems here to out do her. At a distance, on a sudden, he casts his Eyes upon a strong Castle, or stately Palace, whose Walls are of massy Gold, the Bat­tlements of Diamonds, and the Gates of Hyacinths; in short, its Structure is so wonderful, that tho' all the Materials are no other than Diamonds, Car­buncles, Rubies, Pearls, Gold, and Emeralds, yet the Workmanship exceeds them in Value. But having seen all this, can any thing be so charming as to behold a numerous Train of beautiful Dam­sels come out of the Castle in such glorious and costly Apparel, as would be endless for me to de­scribe, were I to relate these things as they are to be found in History. Then to see the Beauty that seems the Chief of all the Damsels, take the bold Knight, who cast himself into the burning Lake, by the Hand, and without speaking one Word, lead him into the sumptuous Palace, where he is caus'd to strip as naked as he was born; then put into a delicious Bath, and perfum'd with precious Essences and odoriferous Oils; after which he puts on a fine Shirt, deliciously scented; and this done, ano­ther Damsel throws over his Shoulders a magnifi­cent Robe worth at least a whole City, if not more. What a Sight is it, when in the next place they lead him into another Room of State, where he finds the Tables so orderly cover'd, that he is surpriz'd and astonish'd? There they pour over his Hands, Water distill'd from Amber and odoriferous Flowers: He is seated in an Ivory Chair; and while all the Damsels that attend him observe a profound Silence, such Variety of Dain­ties is serv'd up, and all so incomparably dress'd, [Page 607] that Appetite is at a stand, doubting on which to satisfy its Desire; at the same time his Ears are sweetly entertain'd with Variety of excellent Mu­sick, none perceiving who makes it, or from whence it comes. But above all, what shall we say to see, after the Dinner is ended, and Tables taken away, the Knight left leaning back in his Chair, perhaps picking his Teeth, as is usual, and then another Damsel, much more beautiful than any of the for­mer, comes unexpectedly into the Room, and sit­ting down by the Knight, begins to inform him what Castle that is, and how she is inchanted in it; with many other Particulars, which surprize the Knight, and astonish those that read his Histo­ry. I will enlarge no more upon this Matter, since from what has been said, it may sufficiently be inferr'd, that the reading of any Passage in any His­tory of Knight-Errantry, must be very delightful and surprizing to the Reader. And do you, good Sir, believe me, and as I said to you before, read these Books, which you may find will banish all Melancholy, if you are troubl'd with it, and sweeten your Disposition if it be harsh. This I can say for my self, that since my being a Knight-Errant, I am brave, courteous, bountiful, well bred, generous, civil, bold, affable, patient, a Suf­ferer of Hardships, Imprisonment and Inchant­ments: And tho' I have so lately been shut up in a Cage, like a Mad-man, I expect through the Va­lour of my Arm, Heaven favouring, and Fortune not opposing my Designs, to be a King within the compass of very few Days, that so I may give Proofs of my innate Gratitude and Liberality. For, on my Word, Sir, a poor Man is incapable of ex­erting his Liberality, tho' he be naturally never so well inclin'd. Now that Gratitude which only [Page 608] consists in Wishes, may be said to be dead, as Faith without good Works is dead. Therefore it is, I wish Fortune would soon offer some Opportunity for me to become an Emperor, that I might give Proofs of my Generosity, by advancing my Friends, but especially this poor Sancho Pança my Squire, who is the harmlessest Fellow in the World; and I would willingly give him an Earldom, which I have long since promis'd him, but that I fear he has not Judgment enough to govern his Estate.

Sancho hearing his Master's last Words; Well, well, Sir, said he, never do you trouble your Head about that Matter; all you have to do is to get me this same Earldom, and let me alone to govern it: I can do as my Betters have done before me, I can put in a Deputy, or a Servant, that shall take all the Trouble off my Hands, while I, as a Great Man, should loll at my Ease, receive my Rents, mind no Business, live merrily, and so let the World rub for Sancho. As to the Management of your Revenue, said the Canon, a Deputy or Stew­ard, may do well, Friend; but the Lord himself is oblig'd to stir in the Administration of Justice, to which there is not only a Sufficiency to govern re­quir'd, but a judicious Head also to distinguish nicely, conclude justly, and chuse wisely. I don't understand your Philosophy, quoth Sancho; all I said, and I'll say it again, is, That I wish I had as good an Earldom as I cou'd govern; for I have as great a Soul as another Man, and as great a Body as most Men: And the first thing I wou'd do in my Government, I wou'd have no Body to con­troul me, I wou'd be absolute; and who but I: Now, he that's absolute, can do what he likes; he that can do what he likes, can take his Pleasure; he that can take his Pleasure, can be content; and [Page 609] he that can be content, has no more to desire; so the Matter's over, and come what will come I'm satisfied: If an Island, welcome; if no Island, fare it well; we shall see our selves in no worse a Con­dition, as one blind Man said to another. This is no ill Reasoning of yours, Friend, said the Canon, tho' there is much more to be said upon this To­pick of Earldoms, than you imagine. Undoubted­ly, said Don Quixote, but I suit my Actions to the Example of Amadis de Gaul, who made his Squire Gandalin Earl of the Firm-Island; which is a fair Precedent for preferring Sancho to the same Digni­ty, to which his Merit also lays an unquestionable Claim. The Canon stood amaz'd at Don Quixote's methodical and orderly Madness: And Sancho's Sim­plicity in so eagerly contending for his Earldom, made the whole Company very good Sport.

By this Time the Canon's Servants had brought the Provision, and spreading a Carpet on the Grass under the shady Trees, they sat down to Dinner; when presently they heard the Tinkling of a little Bell among the Copses close by them, and immedi­ately afterwards they saw bolt out of the Thicket a very pretty She-Goat, speckled all over with black, white, and brown Spots, and a Goatherd running after it, who in his familiar Dialect call'd to it to stay and return to the Fold; but the Fugitive ran towards the Company frighted and panting, and stopt close by them, as if it had begg'd their Pro­tection. The Goatherd overtaking it, caught it by the Horns, and in a chiding way, as if the Goat understood his Resentments, you little wanton Nanny, said he, you spotted Elf, what has made you trip so much of late? What Wolf has scar'd you thus, Huzzy! Tell me, little Fool, what is the matter? But the Cause is plain; thou art a Fe­male, [Page 610] and therefore never can'st be quiet: Curse on your freakish Humours, and all theirs whom you so much resemble; turn back, my Love, turn back, and tho' thou can'st not be content with thy Fold, yet there you may be safe among the rest of your Fellows; for if you, that should guide and direct the Flock, love wandring thus, what must they do, what will become of them? The Goatherd's Talk to his Goat was entertaining enough to the Company, especially to the Canon, who calling to him, Pri­thee honest Fellow, said he, have a little Patience, and let your Goat take its Liberty a while; for, since it is a Female, as you say, she will follow her natural Inclination the more you would con­fine it: Come then, and take a Bit, and a Glass of Wine with us, you may be better humour'd after that. He then reach'd him the Leg of a cold Rabbet, and ordering him a Glass of Wine; the Goat-herd drank it off, and returning the Thanks, was pacify'd. Gentlemen, said he, I wou'd not have you think me a Fool, because I talk so seriously to this sense­less Animal, for my Words bear a mysterious Meaning; I am indeed, as you see, Rustick and Unpolish'd; tho' not so ignorant, but that I can converse with Men, as well as Brutes. That is no Miracle, said the Curate, for I have known the Woods breed Learned Men, and simple Sheep­cotts contain Philosophers. At least, said the Goat-herd, they harbour Men that have some Knowledge of the World; and to make good this Truth, if I thought not the Offer impertinent, or my Company troublesome, you shou'd hear an Ac­cident which but too well confirms what you have said. For my part, answer'd Don Quixote. I will hear you attentively, because methinks your com­ing has something in it that looks like an Adven­ture [Page 611] of Knight-Errantry; and I dare answer, the whole Company will not so much bring their Parts in question, as to refuse to hear a Story so pleasing, surprising and amusing, as I fancy yours will prove. Then prithee Friend begin, for we will all give you our Attention. You must excuse me for one, said Sancho, I must have a Word or two in private with this same Pasty at you little Brook; for I design to fill my Belly for to Morrow and next Day. We Squires of Knight-Errants shou'd always lay up for a rainy Day, and when we want Meat, chew the Cud upon what we laid in before hand. You're in the right, Sancho, said the Knight; but I have, for my part, satisfy'd my Bo­dily Appetite, and now want only Refreshment for my Mind, which I hope this honest Fellow's Story will afford me. All the Company agreed with Don Quixote, the Goatherd then stroaking his pretty Goat once or twice; Lie down thou speckl'd Fool, said he, lie by me here; for we shall have Time enough to return home. The Creature seem'd to understand him, for as soon as her Master sat down, she stretch'd her self quietly by his side, and look'd up in his Face, as if she wou'd let him know that she minded what he said; and then he began thus.

CHAP. XXIV. The Goatherd's Tale.

ABout three Leagues from this Valley, there is a Village, which tho' small, yet is one of the Richest hereabouts. In it there lives a Far­mer in very great Esteem, and tho' its common for the Rich to be respected, yet is this Person more consider'd for the Virtue, than for the Wealth he possesses. But what he accounted himself happiest in, was a Daughter of such extraordinary Beauty, Prudence, Wit and Virtue, that all who knew or beheld her, cou'd not but admire to see how Heaven and Nature had done their utmost to Em­bellish her. When she was but little she was Handsome, and as she grew she still grew more Handsome, till at the Age of Sixteen she was most compleatly Beautiful. The Fame of her Beauty began to extend to the neighbouring Vil­lages; but why say I Villages, it extended to the remotest Cities, and enter'd the Palaces of Kings, and the Ears of all manner of Persons, who from all Parts flock'd to see her, as something rare, or as a sort of Prodigy. Her Father was strictly care­ful of her, nor was she less careful of her self; for there are no Guards, Bolts or Locks, which pre­serve a young Woman like her own Care and Cau­tion — The Father's Riches and the Daughter's Beauty drew a great many, as well Strangers as Inhabitants of that Country, to sue for her in Mar­riage; [Page 613] but such was the vast number of the Pre­tenders, as did but the more confound and divide the old Man in his Choice, upon whom to bestow so valuable a Treasure. Among the Crowd of her Admirers, was I; and good Reason I had to hope for Success from the Knowledge her Father had of me, being a Native of the same Place, of a good Family, and in the Flower of my Years, of a con­siderable Estate, and not to be despis'd for my Un­derstanding. With the very same Advantages, there was another Person of our Village who made Court to her at the same Time. This seem'd to hold all Inclination of the Father in suspence, till his Daughter should declare in favour of one of us: To bring this Affair therefore to the speedier Issue, he resolv'd to acquaint Lean­dra, for so was this Fair One call'd, that since we were Equals in all things, he left her entire­ly free to choose, which of us was most agree­able to herself. An Example worthy of being imitated by all Parents, who have any regard for their Children. I don't mean that they shou'd be allow'd to choose in things Ill or Mischievous; but only that proposing to 'em ever those things which are good, they shou'd be allow'd in them to gra­tify their Inclination. I don't know how Leandra approv'd this Proposal; this I only know, that her Father put us both off with the excuse of his Daughter's being too young to be yet dispos'd of; and that he treated us both in such general Terms, as neither cou'd well please nor displease us— My Rival's Name is Anselmo, mine Eugenio, for 'tis necessary you shou'd know the Names of the Per­sons concern'd in this Tragedy, the Conclusion of which, tho' depending, yet may easily be per­ceiv'd likewise to be unfortunate. About that [Page 614] time there came to our Village one Vicente de la Rosa, the Son of a poor labouring Man of the Neighbourhood. This Vicente came out of Italy, having been a Soldier there, and in foreign Parts. He was but a Boy of twelve Years old, when a Captain that happen'd to pass by here, with his Company, took him out of this Country, and at the end of other twelve Years he return'd hither, habited like a Soldier, all gay and glorious in a thousand various Colours, bedeck'd with a thou­sand Toys of Chrystal, and Chains of Steel. To Day he put on one piece of Finery, to Morrow another; but all false, counterfeit and worthless. The Country-people, who by Nature are mali­cious, and who living in Idleness are still more in­clin'd to Malice, observ'd this presently, and count­ing all his fine things, they found that indeed he had but three Suits of Cloaths, which were of a different colour with the Stockings and Garters be­longing to 'em, yet did he manage 'em with so many Tricks and Inventions, that if one had not counted 'em, one wou'd have sworn he had had a­bove ten Suits, and above twenty Plumes of Fea­thers.—Let it not seem Impertinent that I mention this particular of his Cloaths and Habit, since so much of the Story depends upon it. Seat­ing himself upon a Bench under a large spreading Alder-Tree, which grows in our Street, he us'd to entertain us all with his Exploits, while we stood gaping and listning at the Wonders he recounted: There was not that Country, as he said, upon the face of the Earth, which he had not seen, nor Battle which he had not been engag'd in; he had kill'd more Moors, for his own share, than either Tunis or Argier cou'd hold, and had fought more Duels than Gante, Luna, Diego Garcia de Paredes, or [Page 615] a thousand others that he nam'd, yet in all of 'em had the better, and never got a Scratch, or lost a drop of Blood. Then again he shew'd us the Scars of Wounds he had receiv'd, which tho' they were not to be perceiv'd, yet he gave us to under­stand they were so many Musket-shots, which he had got in several Skirmishes and Rencounters. In short, he treated all his Equals with an unparallel'd Arrogance, and even to those who knew the Mean­ness of his Birth, he did not stick to affirm, after his manner, that his own Arm was his Father, his Atchievements were his Pedigree, and that, bating his carrying Arms, he was as good a Man as the King.

Besides all these Accomplishments, he was a piece of a Musitian, and cou'd thrumb a little up­on the Guitarr; but what his Excellency chiefly lay in, was Poetry; and so fond was he of shewing his Parts that way, that upon every trifling Occa­sion, he was sure to make a Copy of Verses of a Mile or two in length. This Soldier, whom I have describ'd, this Vicente de la Rosa, this Hero, this Gallant, this Musician, this Poet, was often seen and view'd by Leandra, from a Window of her House which look'd into the Street; she was struck with the Tinsel of his Dress; she was charm'd with his Verses, of which he took care to disperse a great many Copies; her Ears were pleas'd with the Exploits he related of himself; and in short, as the Devil wou'd have it, she fell in Love with him before ever he had the Confi­dence to make his Addresses to her: And as in all Affairs of Love, that is the most easily manag'd, where the Lady's Affection is pre-ingag'd; so was it here no hard thing for Leandra and Vicente to have frequent meetings to concert their Matters; [Page 615] and before ever any one of her many Suiters had the least surmise of her Inclination, she had gra­tify'd it; and leaving her Father's House, had run away with this Soldier, who came off with greater Triumph in this Enterprise than in any of the rest he made his boasts of. The whole Village was surpris'd at this accident, as was every one that heard it. I was amaz'd, Anselmo distracted, her Father in Tears, her Relations outragious, Justice is demanded; a party with Officers is sent out, who traverse the Roads, search every Wood, and at the end of three Days find the poor fond Lean­dra in a Cave of one of the Mountains, naked to her Shift, despoil'd of all the Money and rich Jewels which she took from home. They bring and present her to her Father; upon enquiry made into the cause of her Misfortune, she confest inge­nuously that Vicente de la Rosa had deceiv'd her, and upon promise of Marriage had prevail'd with her to leave her Father's House, with the assurance of carrying her to the richest, but indeed the most debauch'd City of the World, which was Naples; that she foolishly had given credit to him, and robbing her Father, had deliver'd the Treasure into his Hands the first Night; that he carry'd her up a steep Mountain, and there confin'd her in that Cave where she was found. In fine, she said, that tho' he had rifl'd her of all she had, yet he had never attempted her Honour; but leaving her in that manner he fled. It was no easy matter to make any of us entertain a good opinion of the Soldiers Continence; but she affirm'd it with so many repeated Asseverations, that in some measure it serv'd to comfort her Father in his Affliction, who valu'd nothing so much as his Daughter's Re­putation. The very same Day that Leandra ap­pear'd [Page 616] again, she also disappear'd from us, for her Father immediately clap'd her up in a Monastry in a Town not far off, in hopes that Time might wear off something of her Disgrace. Those who were not interested in Leandra, excus'd her upon the account of her Youth. But those who were acquainted with her Wit and Sense, did not at­tribute her Miscarriage to her Ignorance, but to the Levity and Vanity of Mind natural to Woman­kind. Since the Confinement of Leandra, An­selmo's Eyes cou'd never meet with an Object which cou'd give him either Ease or Pleasure; I too cou'd find nothing but what look'd sad and gloomy to me in the Absence of Leandra. Our Melancholy increas'd, as our Patience de­creas'd: We curst a thousand times the Soldier's finery and Trinkets, and rail'd at the Father's want of Precaution: At last we agreed, Anselmo and I, to leave the Village, and to retire to this Valley, where he feeding a large flock of Sheep, and I as large a herd of Goats, all our own, we pass our time under the Trees, giving vent to our Passions, singing in Consort the Praises or Reproaches of the beauteous Leandra, or else sighing alone make our Complaints to Heaven on our Misfortune. In imitation of us, a great many more of Leandra's Lovers have come hither into these steep and craggy Mountains, and are alike emplov'd; and so many there are of 'em, that the Place seems to be turn'd to the old Arcadia we read of By the top of that Hill there is a number of the Shep­herds and their Cottages; there is not a part of it in which is not to be heard the n [...] [...] Leandra. This Man curses and calls her Wa [...] [...] [...] ­vious, another calls her Light and [...] Acquits and Forgives her, ano [...]her A [...] [...] Condemns her; one celebrates her Beauty, [...] [...] ther [Page 618] rails at her ill Qualities; in short, all blame, but all adore her: Nay, so far does this Humour prevail, that here are those who complain of her Disdain, who never spoke to her; and others who make their boasts of Favours which she never granted to any; for as I intimated before, her In­clination was not known before her Disgrace. There is not a hollow place of a Rock, a Bank of a Brook, or a shady Grove, where there is not some or other of these amorous Shepherds telling their doleful Stories to the Air and Winds. Eccho has learnt to repeat the name of Leandra, Leandra all the Hills resound, the Brooks murmur Lean­dra, and 'tis Leandra that holds us all Inchanted, hoping without hope, and fearing without know­ing what we fear. Of all these foolish People, the Person who shews the least, and yet has the most Sense, is my Rival Anselmo, who forgetting all other causes of Complaint, complains only of her Absence; and to his Lute, which he touches to Admiration, he joins his Voice in Verses of his own composing, which declare the greatness of his Genius. For my part I take another Course, I think a better, I'm sure an easier, which is, to say all the ill things I can of Womens Levity, In­constancy, their broken Vows and Promises, of their Fondness of Show and Disregard of Merit. This, Gentlemen, was the Occasion of those Words, which at my coming hither I addrest to this Goat: for being a she, I hate her, tho' she is the best of my Herd. This is the Story which I promis'd to tell you; if you have thought it too long, I shall endeavour to requite your Patience in any thing I can serve you. Hard by is my Cottage, where I have some good fresh Milk and excellent Cheese, with several sorts of Fruits, [Page 619] which I hope you will find agreeable both to the Sight and Taste.

CHAP. XXV. Of the Combat between Don Quixote and the Goatherd: With the rare Adventure of the Penitents, which the Knight hap­pily accomplish'd with the sweat of his Brows.

THE Goatherd's Story was mightily lik'd by the whole Company, especially by the Ca­non, who particularly minded the manner of his relating it, that had more of a Scholar and Gen­tleman, than of a rude Goatherd; which made him conclude the Curate had reason to say, that even the Mountains breed Scholars and Men of Sense. They all made large proffers of their Friendship and Service to Eugenio, but Don Quixote exceeded 'em all, and addressing himself to him, Were I, said he, at this time in a capa­city of undertaking any Adventure, I wou'd cer­tainly begin from this very Moment to serve you; I wou'd soon release Leandra out of the Nunnery, where undoubtedly she is detain'd against her will; and in spight of all the opposition cou'd be made by the Lady Abbess and all her Adherents, I wou'd return her to your Hands, that you might have the sole disposal of her, so far, I mean, as is con­sistent with the Laws of Knighthood, which ex­presly [Page 619] forbid that any Man shou'd offer the least violence to a Damsel; yet (I trust in Heaven) that the Power of a friendly Magician will pre­vail against the force of a malicious Inchanter; and whenever this shall happen, you may assure your self of my Favour and Assistance, to which I am oblig'd by my Profession, that injoins me to re­lieve the Oppress'd.

The Goatherd, who till then had not taken the least notice of him, now looking earnestly on him, and finding his dismal Countenance and wretched Habit were no great incouragement for him to expect a performance of such mighty matters, whisper'd the Barber who sate next him. Pray Sir, said he, who is this Man that talks so extravagantly? For I protest I never saw so strange a Figure in all my Life. Whom can you imagin it shou'd be, reply'd the Barber, but the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the Establisher of Justice, The Avenger of Injuries, The Protector of Damsels, The Terror of Giants, and the Invinci­ble in Combats? The account you give of this Person, return'd the Goatherd, is much like what we read in Romances and Books of Chivalry of those doughty Dons, who for their mighty Prowess and Atchievements, were call'd Knight-Errants; and therefore I dare say you do but jest, and that this Gentleman's Brains have deserted their Quar­ters.

Thou art an impudent insolent Varlet, cry'd Don Quixote, 'tis thy Paper-scull that is unfit to hold a rational Soul; I have more Brains than the Prostitute thy Mother had about her when she carry'd thy Lump of Nonsense in her Womb. With that, snatching up a Loaf that was near him, he struck the Goatherd so furious a Blow with [Page 620] it, that he almost levell'd his Nose with his Face. T'other not accustom'd to such Salutations, no soon­er perceiv'd how scurvily he was treated, but with­out any Respect to the Table-cloth, Napkins, or to those who were eating, he leap'd furiously on Don Quixote, and taking Hold on his Collar with both his Hands, had certainly strangl'd him, had not Sancho Pança come in that very Nick of Time, and griping him fast behind, thrown him back on the Table, bruising Dishes, breaking Glasses, spil­ling and overturning all that lay upon it. Don Quix­ote seeing himself freed, fell violently again upon the Goatherd, who, all besmear'd with Blood, and trampl'd to Pieces under Sancho's Feet, grop'd here and there for some Knife or Fork to take a fatal Revenge; but the Canon and Curate took Care to prevent his Purpose, and in the mean while, by the Barber's Assistance, the Goatherd got Don Quixote under him, on whom he let fall such a Tempest of Blows, as caus'd as great a Shower of Blood to pour from the poor Knight's Face as had stream'd from his own. The Canon and Curate were ready to burst with laughing, the Officers danc'd and jump'd at the Sport, every one cry'd Halloo! as Men use to do when two Dogs are snarling or fighting; San­cho Pança alone was vex'd, and rav'd because he cou'd not quit himself from the strict Embraces of one of the Canon's Servingmen, who kept him from assisting his Master. In short, all were ex­ceedingly merry, except the bloody Combatants, who had mawl'd one another most miserably, when on a Sudden they heard the Sound of a Trumpet so doleful, that it made 'em turn to listen towards that Part from whence it seem'd to come: But he who was most troubl'd at this dismal Alarm was Don Quixote; therefore tho' he lay under the [Page 622] Goatherd full sore against his Will, and was most lamentably bruis'd and batter'd, Friend Devil, cry'd he to him, (for sure nothing less cou'd have so much Valour and Strength as to subdue my Forces) let us have a Cessation of Arms but for a single Hour, for the dolorous Sound of that Trumpet strikes my Soul with more Horrour, than thy hard Fists do my Ears with Pain, and methinks excite me to some new Adventure. With that the Goatherd, who was as weary of beating as of be­ing beaten, immediately gave him a Truce; and the Knight once more getting on his Feet, directed his then not hasty Steps to the Place whence the mournful Sound seem'd to come, and presently saw a Number of Men all in White, like Peni­tents, descending from a rising Ground. The real Matter was this: The People had wanted Rain for a whole Year together, wherefore they appoint­ed Rogations, Processions, and Disciplines through­out all that Country, to implore Heaven to open its Treasury, and show'r down Plenty upon 'em; and to this End the Inhabitants of a Village near that Place came in Procession to a devout Hermitage built on one of the Hills which surrounded that Valley.

Don Quixote taking Notice of the strange Habit of the Penitents, and never reminding himself that he had often seen the like before, fancy'd immedi­ately it was some new Adventure, and he alone was to engage in it, as he was oblig'd by the Laws of Knight-Errantry; and that which the more increas'd his Frenzy, was his mistaking an Image which they carry'd (all cover'd with Black) for some great Lady, whom these miscreant and discourteous Knights, he thought, were carrying away against her Will. As soon as this Whimsy [Page 623] took him in the Head, he mov'd with what Expe­dition he cou'd towards Rozinante, who was feeding up and down upon the Plains and dismounting his Bridle from the Pummel, and his Target which hung on that, he bridl'd him in an Instant; then taking his Sword from Sancho, he got in a Trice on Rozinante's Back; where embracing his Target, and addressing himself aloud to all there present, O va­lorous Company, cry'd he, you shall now perceive of how great Importance it is to Mankind, that such illustrious Persons as those who profess the Order of Knight-Errantry shou'd exist in the World; now, I say, you shall see by my freeing that noble Lady, who is there basely and barba­rously carry'd away Captive, that Knights-Adven­turers ought to be held in the highest and greatest Estimation. So saying, he struck Rozinante with his Heels for want of Spurs; and forcing him to a Hand-gallop (for 'twas never read in any Part of this true History that Rozinante did ever run full Speed) he posted to encounter the Penitents, in Spight of all the Curate, Canon, and Barber cou'd do to hinder him; much less cou'd Sancho Pança's Outcries detain him, Master! Sir! Don Quixote! bawl'd out the poor Squire, whither are you post­ing? are you bewitch'd? does the Devil drive and set you on, thus to run against the Church? Ah Wretch that I am! — See, Sir! That is a Proces­sion of Penitents, and the Lady they carry is the Image of the immaculate Virgin, our blessed La­dy. Take Heed what you do, for at this Time it may be certainly said you are out of your Wits—. But Sancho might as well have kept his Breath for a­nother use, for the Knight was urg'd with so vehe­ment a Desire to encounter the white Men and re­lease the mourning Lady, that he heard not a Syl­lable [Page 623] of it, or if he had, he wou'd not have turn'd back at the King's express Command. At last be­ing come near the Procession, and stopping Rozi­nante, that already had a great Desire to rest a little, in a dismal Tone and with a hoarse Voice, Ho! cry'd he, you there, who cover your Faces, per­haps because you are asham'd of your selves, and of the Crime you are now committing, give Heed and Attention to what I have to say! — The first who stopt at this Alarm were those who carry'd the Image; when one of the four Priests that sung the Litanies, seeing the strange Figure that Don Quixote made, and the Leanness of Rozinante, with other Circumstances which he observ'd in the Knight sufficient to have forc'd Laughter, presently made him this Answer; Good Sir! if you have a­ny thing to say to us speak it quickly; for these poor Men whom you see are very much tir'd, therefore we neither can, nor is it reasonable we shou'd, stand thus in Pain to hear any thing that can't be deliver'd in two Words. I will say it in one, reply'd Don Quixote, which is this; I charge you immediately to release that beautiful Lady, whose Tears and Looks full of Sorrow evidently shew you carry her away by Violence, and have done her some unheard of Injury. This do, or I who was born to punish such Outrages, will not suffer you to advance one Step with her, till she is entirely possess'd of that Liberty she so earnestly desires and so justly deserves. This last Speech made 'em all conclude that the Knight was certain­ly distracted, and caus'd a general Laughter: But this prov'd like Oil to Fire, and so inflam'd Don Quixote, that laying his Hand on his Sword, with­out more Words, he presently assaulted those who carry'd the Image. At the same Time one of them [Page 624] quitting his Post, came to encounter our Heroe with a wooden Fork, on which he supported the Bier whenever they made a Stand, and warding with it a weighty Blow which Don Quixote de­sign'd and discharg'd at him, the Fork was cleft in two; but he who had the remaining Piece in his Hand return'd the Knight such a Thwack on his left Shoulder, that his Target not being able to resist such rustick Force, the poor unfortunate Don Quixote was struck to the Ground and miserably bruis'd.

Sancho Pança, who had follow'd him as fast as his Breath and Legs wou'd permit, seeing him fall, cry'd out to his Adversary to forbear striking him, urging that he was a poor enchanted Knight, and one who in his whole Life had never done any Man Harm. But 'twas not Sancho's Arguments that held the Country-fellow's Hands, the only Motive was, that he fear'd he had kill'd him, since he cou'd not perceive he stirr'd either Hand or Foot; wherefore tucking his Coat up to his Girdle with all possible Expedition, he scour'd over the Fields like a Grey­hound. Mean while Don Quixote's Companions hasten'd to the Place where he lay, and those of the Procession, who saw 'em come running towards them, attended by the Officers of the Holy Bro­therhood with their Cross-bows, began to have Apprehensions of some ill Design against 'em from the approaching Party; wherefore drawing up in a Body about the Image, the Disciplinants lifting up their Hoods, and grasping fast their Whips, as the Priests did their Tapers, they expected the Assault with the greatest Bravery, resolving to defend themselves and offend their Enemy as long and as much as possible: But Providence had order'd the Matter much better than they cou'd hope; for [Page 626] while Sancho who had thrown himself on his Master's Body was lamenting his Loss, and the suppos'd Death of so noble and generous a Lord, in the most ridiculous Manner that e'er was heard, the Curate of the Knight's Party was come up with the other who came in the Procession, and was immediately known by him, so that their Acquaintance put an End to the Fears which both Sides were in of an En­gagement. Don Quixote's Curate in few Words ac­quainted the other with the Knight's Circumstan­ces; whereupon he and the whole Squadron of Pe­nitents went over to see whether the unfortunate Knight were living or dead, and heard Sancho Pança with Tears in his Eyes bewailing over his Master: O Flower of Knighthood, cry'd he, that with one single perlous Knock art come to an untimely End! Thou Honour of thy Family, and Glory of all La Mancha! nay, and of the whole varsal World be­side; which, now it has lost thee, will be over­run by Miscreants and Outlaws, who will no longer be afraid to be mauld for their Misdeeds. O bountiful above all the Alexanders in the World! thou who hast rewarded me but for poor eight Months Service with the best Island that is wash'd by Salt Water! Thou who wert humble to the Proud and haughty to the Humble! Thou who durst un­dertake Perils, and patiently endure Affronts! Thou who wert in Love, no Body knows why! True Pattern of good Men, and Scourge of the wicked, sworn Foe to all Reprobates! and to say all at once that Man can say, thou Knight-Errant!

The woful Accents of the Squire's Voice at last recall'd Don Quixote to himself; when after a deep Sigh, the first thing he thought of was his absent Dulcinea, O charming Dulcinea, cry'd he, the Wretch that lingers banish'd from your sight [Page 627] indures far greater Miseries than this! And then looking on his faithful Squire, Good Sancho, said he, help me once more into the Inchanted Chariot; for I am not in a condition to mount at present; this Shoulder is all broke to pieces. With all my heart, my good Lord, reply'd Sancho, and pray let me advise you to go back to our Village with those Gentlemen who are your special Friends. At home we may think of some other Journey that may be more to the purpose than this. With reason hast thou spoken, Sancho, reply'd Don Quixote: It will become our Wisdom to be un­active till the malevolent Aspects of the Planets which now reign be over. This grave Resolution was highly commended by the Canon, Curate, and Barber, who had been sufficiently diverted by Sancho Pança's ridiculous Lamentation. Don Quixote was plac'd in the Waggon as before, The Processioners recover'd their former Order, and past on about their Business. The Goatherd took his leave of the whole Company. The Curate satisfy'd the Officers for their Attendance, since they would stir no farther. The Canon desir'd the Curate to send him an account of Don Quixote's Condition from that time forward, having a mind to know whether his Phrenzy abated or increas'd; and then took his leave to continue his Journy. Thus the Curate, the Barber, Don Quixote, and Sancho Pança were left together; as also the good Rozinante, that bore all these Passages as patiently as his Master. The Waggoner then yoak'd his Oxen, and having set Don Quixote on a Truss of Hay, jogg'd on after his slow accustom'd pace that way the Curate had directed. In six days time they reach'd the Knight's Village: 'Twas about noon when they enter'd the Town; and as [Page 627] this happen'd to be on a Sunday, all the People were in the Market-place, thro the middle of which Don Quixote's Cart must of necessity pass. Every body was curious to know what was in it; and the People were strangely surpriz'd when they saw and knew their Townsman. While they were gaping and wondering, a little Boy ran to the Knight's House, and gave intelligence to the House-keeper and Niece, that their Master was return'd, and very lean, pale, and frightful as a Ghost, stretch'd out at length on a Bundle of Hay in a Waggon, and drawn along by a Team of Oxen.

'Twas a piteous Sight to see the wailing of those two poor Creatures; the Blows too which they gave themselves, with the Curses and Execrations they thunder'd out against all Books of Chivalry, were almost as numerous as their Sighs and Tears: But the heighth of their lamenting was when Don Quixote entr'd the Door. Upon the noise of his Arrival Sancho Pança's Wife made haste thither to inquire after her good Man, who, she was inform'd, went a Squiring with the Knight. As soon as ever she set Eyes on him, the question she ask'd him was this: Is the Ass in health, or no? Sancho answer'd, he was come back in better health than his Master Well, said she, Heaven be prais'd for the good News. But hark you, my Friend! con­tinu'd she; what have you got by this new Squire­ship? Have you brought me home e'er a Gown or Petticoat, or Shooes for my little Boys? In troth, sweet Wife, reply'd Sancho, I have brought thee none of these things; I am loaded with better things. Ay? said his Wife, that's well; Prethee let me see some of them fine things; for I vow I've a hugeous mind to she 'em; the sight of 'em [Page 628] will comfort my poor Heart, which has been like to burst with Sorrow and Grief ever since you went away. I'll shew 'em thee when we come home, return'd Sancho; in the mean time rest satsfy'd; for, if Heaven see good that we shall once again come abroad in search of other Ad­ventures, within a little time after, at my return, thou shalt find me some Earl, or the Governour of some Island; ay, of one of the very best in the whole World. I wish with all my heart this may come to pass, reply'd the good Wife; for, by my troth, Husband, we want it sorely. But what do you mean by that same word Islands? for believe me I don't understand it. All in good time, Wife, said Sancho; Honey is not made for an Asse's Mouth: I'll tell thee what 'tis hereafter. Thou wilt be amaz'd to hear all thy Servants and Vassals ne'er speak a word to thee without an't please you Madam, an't like your Ladyship, and your Honour. What dost thou mean, Sancho, by Ladyship, Islands, and Vassals, ask'd Joan Pança? For so she was call'd, tho her Husband and she were nothing a-kin, only 'tis a Custom in La Mancha that the Wives are there call'd by their Husbands Sirnames. Prithee Joan, said Sancho, dont't trouble thy head to know these Matters all at once, and in a heap, as a body may say. Yet, by the way, one thing I will assure thee, That nothing in the varsal World is better for an honest Man, than to be Squire to a Knight-Errant while he's hunting of Adventures. 'Tis true, most Adventures he goes about do not answer a Man's Expectation so much as he cou'd wish; for of a hundred that are met with, ninety and nine are wont to be crabbed and unlucky ones. This I know to my cost: I my self have got well kick'd and toss'd in some of 'em, [Page 630] and soundly drub'd and belabour'd in others; yet, for all that, 'tis rare sport to be a watching for strange Chances, to cross Forests, to search and beat up and down in Woods, to scramble over Rocks, to visit Castles, and take up Quarters in an Inn at pleasure, and all the while the Devil a Cross to pay.

These were the Discourses with which Sancho Pança and his Wife Joan entertain'd one another, while the House-keeper and Niece undrest Don Quixote, and put him into his Bed; where he lay looking very earnestly on 'em, but cou'd not ima­gin where he was. The Curate charg'd the Niece to be very careful and tender of her Uncle, and to be very watchful, lest he shou'd make a third Sally; telling 'em what difficulty he had to get him home again. Here the Women began their Out-crys again: Here the Books of Knight-Errantry were again execrated and damn'd to the bottomless Pit. Here they beg'd those cursed bewitching Chimeras and Lies might be thrown down into the very Centre, to the Hellish Father of 'em: For, they were still almost distracted with the fear of losing their Master and Uncle afresh, immediately upon his Recovery; which indeed succeeded ac­cording to their Fear. But, tho the Author of this History has been very curious and diligent in his inquiry after Don Quixote's Atchievements in his third Expedition in quest of Adventures, yet he cou'd never learn a perfect account of 'em, at least from any Author of Credit. Fame and Traditi­on alone have preserv'd some particulars of 'em in the Memoirs of several Inhabitants of La Mancha; as, that after the Knight's third Sally, he was pre­sent at certain famous Tilts and Tournaments made in the City of Saragosa, where he met with [Page 631] Occasions worthy the exercise of his Sense and Valour: But how the Knight dy'd, our Author neither cou'd nor ever shou'd have learn'd, if by good Fortune he had not met with an antient Physician, who had a Leaden Box in his possession, which, as he assur'd me, was found in the Ruins of an old Hermitage, as it was rebuilding. In this Box were certain Scrolls of Parchment written in Gothic Characters, but containing Verses in the Spanish Tongue, in which many of his noble Acts were sung, and Dulcinea del Toboso's Beauty cele­brated, Rozinante's Figure describ'd, and Sancho Pança's Fidelity applauded. They likewise gave an account of Don Quixote's Sepulchre, with several Epitaphs and Elogies on his Life and Manners. Those that cou'd be thorowly read and transcrib'd, are here added by the faithful Author of this New and Incomparable History; desiring no other Re­compense or Reward of the Readers for all his Labour and Pains in searching all the large and old Records of La Mancha to perfect this matchless Piece, but that they will be pleas'd to give it as much credit as judicious Men use to give to Books of Knight-Errantry, which are now a days are so generally taking. This is the utmost of his Ambition, and will be his Satisfaction, and will like­wise incourage him to furnish 'em with other mat­ter of Entertainment; which, tho possibly not altogether so true as this, yet it may be as fancyful and diverting. The first Words in the Parchment found in the Leaden Box are these:

[Page 631] Cachidiablo, Academick of Argamasilla, on Don Quixote's Monument.

Tictoc, Academick of Argamasilla, on Dulcinea del Toboso's Monument.

These were the Verses that cou'd be read: As for the rest, the Characters being defac'd, and al­most eaten away, they were deliver'd to a Univer­sity Student, in order that he might give us his [Page 632] Conjectures concerning their meaning. And we are inform'd, that after many Lucubrations, and much Pains, he has effected the Work; and intends to oblige the World with it, giving us at the same time some hopes of Don Quixote's third Sally.