Chapter 4

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

the story of chrysostom.

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

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

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

"For Marcela, say you?" quoth one.

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

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

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

"We thank you, nevertheless," answered Pedro.

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

"Friend," quoth Don Quixote, "the obscuration of those two luminaries is called aneclipse, and not aclipse."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

chrysostom's song.i.

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

ii.

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

iii.

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

iv.

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

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

vi.

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

vii.

Oh thou, whose unrelenting rigor's forceFirst drove me to despair, and now to death;When the sad tale of my untimely fallShall reach thy ear, though it deserve a sigh,Veil not the heaven of those bright eyes in grief,Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the worldAt length my death has triumphed o'er thy scorn:With laughter and each circumstance of joyThe festival of my disastrous end.Ah! need I bid thee smile? too well I knowMy death's thy utmost glory and thy pride.

viii.

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

ix.

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

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

chrysostom's epitaph.

The body of a wretched swain,Killed by a cruel maid's disdain,In this cold bed neglected lies.He lived, fond, hapless youth! to proveTh' inhuman tyranny of love,Exerted in Marcela's eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let him who is deceived complain.

Let him to whom faith is broken despair.

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

Much time is necessary to know people thoroughly.

We are sure of nothing in this life.

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

Fortune always leaves some door open in misfortune.

Sometimes we look for one thing and find another.

Self-praise depreciates.

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

Out of the frying-pan into the fire.

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

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

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

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

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

adventure of the dead body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And who killed him?" demanded Don Quixote.

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

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

He that seeketh danger perisheth therein.

Fear hath many eyes.

Evil to him that evil seeks.

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

He loves thee well who makes thee weep.

the grand adventure and rich prize of mambrino's helmet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who sings in grief procures relief.

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

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

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

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

The wicked are always ungrateful.

Necessity urges desperate measures.

sonnet.

Know'st thou, O love, the pangs that I sustain,Or, cruel, dost thou view those pangs unmov'd?Or has some hidden cause its influence proved,By all this sad variety of pain?Love is a god, then surely he must know,And knowing, pity wretchedness like mine;From other hands proceeds the fatal blow—Is then the deed, unpitying Chloe, thine?Ah, no! a form so exquisitely fairA soul so merciless can ne'er enclose.From Heaven's high will my fate resistless flows,And I, submissive, must its vengeance bear.Nought but a miracle my life can save,And snatch its destined victim from the grave.

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

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

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

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

In all misfortunes the greatest consolation is a sympathizing friend.

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

He that buys and denies, his own purse belies.

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

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

The absent feel and fear every ill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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