Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined together; and the alcalde of the town chancing to enter the inn with a scrivener, our hero demanded, by a formal petition, that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentleman there present, should depose before his worship, that he was not acquainted with him, Don Quixote there present also; and that he the said Don Quixote was not the person described in a certain history, intitled, The second part of Don Quixote de La Mancha; composed by one Avellanada, native of Tordesillas. In a word, the alcalde proceeded in form; the deposition was drawn up in the strongest terms, and the knight and squire were as much rejoiced as if this certificate had been of the utmost consequence to their identity, and as if the difference between the two Quixotes and Sanchos would not have plainly appeared from their words and actions.

Many compliments and proffers of service passed between Don Alvaro and Don Quixote; and our great Manchegan gave such proofs of discretion as undeceived Don Alvaro, who persuaded himself that he was certainly inchanted, seeing he had felt, as it were with his hand, two such contrary Don Quixotes. In the evening they departed from the village, and travelled together about half a league, until they found the highway divided into two roads, one of which led to the habitation of Don Quixote, and Don Alvaro’s journey lay through the other: yet, in that small space, the knight recounted the misfortune of his overthrow, together with Dulcinea’s inchantment, and the remedy proposed; so as to excite anew the admiration of the stranger; who, embracing Don Quixote and Sancho, took his leave, and proceeded on his own affairs, while our knight jogged on at an easy pace, and passed the night in a grove of trees in order to give Sancho an opportunity to perform his penance, which he accomplished as before, at the expence of the beeches, and not of his own shoulders; these he defended with such care, that they felt not even the whiff of any stripe sufficient to displace a fly. The credulous knight lost not one in his reckoning of the lashes; which including those of the preceding night, amounted to three thousand and twenty-nine: the sun seemed to rise early on purpose to behold this sacrifice, and to light our adventurer on his way, which he prosecuted, conversing with Sancho upon the mistake and deception of Don Alvaro, and his own presence of mind in obtaining such an authentick testimonial before the justice.

The whole day and night they travelled without encountering any adventure worthy of record, except that, in the dark, Sancho finished his discipline, to the unspeakable satisfaction of the knight, who waited with impatience for the day in hope of finding his mistress Dulcinea disinchanted upon the road: indeed, he was so much engrossed by this notion, that he went up to every woman he met in the remaining part of his journey, to see if she was not Dulcinea del Toboso; infallibly persuaded that there could be no deceit in the promises of Merlin. While he indulged these reflections and desires, they ascended a rising ground from whence they descried their own village; which Sancho no sooner perceived, than he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Open thine eyes, beloved country! and behold the return of thy son Sancho Panza; who, though not very rich in coin, is well stored with lashes: open thine arms at the same time, and receive thy son Don Quixote; who, though vanquished by a stranger’s hand, returns the victor of himself; and that, as he hath often told me, is the greatest conquest which can be desired. With regard to my own fate, I have money in my purse; for, though the stripes fell thick and heavy, I was rewarded like a gentleman.’—‘Leave these fooleries,’ said the knight, ‘and let us go directly home, where we will indulge our imagination with free scope, in contriving the scheme of pastoral felicity which we intend to enjoy.’

They accordingly descended the hill, and made the best of their way to their own village.

CHAP. XXI.
OF THE OMENS THAT OCCURRED TO DON QUIXOTE
WHEN HE ENTERED THE VILLAGE—
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WHICH ADORN
AND AUTHENTICATE THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

Cid Hamet relates, that Don Quixote, as he entered the village, perceived two boys quarrelling in a threshing-floor, and heard the one say to his antagonist, ‘Struggle thy fill, Periquillo, thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life.’ These words no sooner reached the knight’s ears, than turning to his squire, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘didst not thou mark what the boy said? “Thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life.”’—‘And what signifies what the boy says?’ answered the squire. ‘What!’ replied the knight, ‘dost thou not perceive that these words, applied to my concerns, signify, that I shall never behold Dulcinea?’ Sancho was just going to answer, when he was prevented by the sight of an hare, which being pursued by a number of greyhounds and hunters, came running through the field and squatted down in a fright under Dapple; the squire immediately saved it from the dogs, by seizing and presenting it to his master, who said, ‘Malum signum, malum signum! the hare flies, the hounds pursue, and Dulcinea does not appear.’—‘That is a strange fancy in your worship!’ replied the squire; ‘let us, for example, suppose it Dulcinea del Toboso, and these pursuing hounds the felonious inchanters who have transformed her into a country-wench; she flies, I catch and deliver her to your worship, who hold and fondle her in your arms; what bad sign is that? or what ill omen can be conjured from such a circumstance?’ At this juncture the two boys who had been quarrelling, came up to see the hare; and Sancho having asked the cause of their quarrel, was answered by him who said, ‘Thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life,’ that he had taken a cage full of crickets from the other boy, which he did not intend to restore in the whole course of his life. In consequence of this information, the squire pulled out of his pocket four farthings, and gave them to the boy for the cage, which he put into the hands of Don Quixote, saying, ‘Behold, Signior, the wreck and destruction of those omens, which I (though a fool) imagine have no more to do with our affairs than last year’s clouds; and if I right remember, I have heard the curate of our parish observe, that no Christian of common sense ought to mind such childish trifles; nay, even your worship made the same remark some time ago, and told me those Christians were actually mad who put any faith in omens; and therefore we have no occasion to make a stumbling-block of this accident: but let us proceed, and enter the town a-God’s name.’

The hunters coming up, demanded the hare, which was delivered to them by our knight, who jogging on with his squire, perceived the curate and batchelor Carrasco busy at their devotion, in a little meadow that skirted the town. Now the reader must know, that Sancho Panza had, over the bundle of armour carried by Dapple, thrown, by way of sumpter-cloth, the buckram robe painted with flames of fire, which he had worn in the duke’s castle on the night of Altisidora’s resurrection; and he, at the same time, had fixed the mitre upon the head of the ass, which, thus adorned, exhibited the strangest transformation that any beast of burden in the world had ever undergone. Our adventurers were immediately recognized by the curate and batchelor, who ran to receive them with open arms; when Don Quixote alighting, embraced them with great cordiality; and the boys, who are quick-sighted as lynxes, descrying the mitre of the ass, came running in crowds to behold this new spectacle, crying to one another, ‘Come along, boys, and see Sancho Panza’s Dapple, as fine as a May-morning^[212], and Rozinante more lean than ever.’

In a word, they entered the town, surrounded with boys, and accompanied by the curate and batchelor, who attended them to the knight’s house, at the gate of which they found the niece and housekeeper, already apprized of his arrival. The same intimation, neither more nor less, had been given to Sancho’s spouse Teresa Panza, who came running to see her husband, half naked, with her hair hanging about her ears, and her daughter Sanchica in her hand; but, seeing he was not so gayly equipped as she thought a governor should be, ‘Hey-day, husband!’ cried she, ‘you come home a-foot, and seem to be quite foundered, and look more like a governor of hogs, than a ruler of men.’—‘Hold your tongue, Teresa,’ replied the squire; ‘you will often find hooks where there is no bacon; let us e’en trudge home, where I will tell thee wonders: I have money in my purse, (and that’s the one thing needful) earned by my own industry, without prejudice to any person whatsoever.’—‘Do you bring home the money, good husband,’ said Teresa, ‘and let it be earned here or there, or got in what shape you please, I give myself no trouble about the matter; I am sure, in getting it, you have introduced no new fashion into the world.’ Sanchica embraced her father, and asked if he had brought any thing for her, who had expected him as impatiently as if he had been May-dew: then taking hold of his girdle with one hand, and leading Dapple with the other, while her mother held him by the fist, they repaired to their own house, leaving Don Quixote to the care of his niece and housekeeper, and in company with the curate and batchelor.

The knight, disregarding times and seasons, instantly retired into an apartment with his two friends, to whom he briefly related his overthrow, and the obligation under which he lay, to stay at home for the space of one year, which obligation he intended literally to observe, without failing in the least tittle, like a true knight-errant, bound by the punctuality of the order which he had the honour to profess. During this term of retirement, he proposed to turn shepherd, and enjoy the solitude of the field, where he would give full scope to his amorous sentiments, and exercise himself in all the virtues of a pastoral life: he, at the same time, besought them (provided they had any time to spare, and were not hindered by business of more consequence) to become his companions; assuring them he would purchase a flock of sheep sufficient for a number of swains, and that the principal part of the scheme was already effected, inasmuch as he had invented names that would suit them with the utmost propriety. The curate expressing a desire to know these appellations, the knight said, he would call himself the shepherd Quixotiz, the batchelor should be distinguished by the name of the swain Carrascon, the curate he denominated Curiambro, and the squire, Pancino. They were confounded at this new species of madness; but, lest he should once more forsake his habitation to follow his new chivalries, and in hope that he might possibly be cured during the year of his confinement, they seemingly assented to this new proposal, extolled his madness as the very essence of discretion, and promised to be his companions in the exercise he had planned. ‘All the world knows that I am a celebrated poet,’ said Sampson Carrasco, ‘and at every turn I shall compose verses, pastorals, or courtly sonnets, or such as will best answer the purpose of entertaining us in the fields through which we shall rove: but there is one circumstance, gentlemen, which we must by no means neglect; and that is, every man shall chuse a name for the shepherdess he intends to celebrate, and inscribe and engrave it on every tree, let it be never so hard, according to the constant practice of enamoured swains.’—‘A very seasonable suggestion,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘but, although I am at liberty to chuse a fictitious name, I shall not employ my invention for that purpose, while there is such a person as the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these banks! the ornament of these meadows! the support of beauty! the cream of all gentility! and, finally, the subject that suits all praise, how hyperbolical soever it may be.’—‘Very true,’ said the curate; ‘but we must put up with nymphs of an inferior rank; who, though they will not square, may corner with our desires.’—‘And should we be at a loss,’ added Sampson Carrasco, ‘we will borrow names that abound in printed books; such as Phillis, Amaryllis, Diana, Florida, Galatea, and Belisarda; which, as they are publickly sold, we may purchase and appropriate to our own use. If, for example, my mistress, or rather shepherdess, be called Ann, I will celebrate her under the name of Anna; if her name is Frances, she shall be called Francenia; if Lucia, she shall be known by the appellation of Lucinda: in the same manner shall other names be metamorphosed; and if Sancho Panza is inclined to be one of our fraternity, he may celebrate his wife Teresa Panza, under the name of Teresayna.’ Don Quixote could not help smiling at this transformation; and the curate, in very high terms, applauded his honourable and virtuous resolution, promising anew to spend in his company all the time he could spare from his indispensible obligations. And now they took leave of the knight; after having advised and entreated him to have a reverend care of his health, and comfort his stomach with something good and substantial.

The niece and housekeeper having by accident overheard this conversation, entered the apartment as soon as the curate and batchelor were gone; and the former, addressing herself to Don Quixote, ‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘what is the meaning of all this! Now that we thought you was returned to stay at home, and lead a quiet and honourable life in your own house, you want to re-entangle yourself in new labyrinths, and turn a poor shepherd. Thou cam’st with a crook, and with a scrip thou wilt go, as the saying is; for, in good faith, the straw is too old to make pipes of.’—‘And does your worship think,’ added the housekeeper, ‘that you can stay in the field, during the heats of summer, and the frosts of winter, to hear the howling of wolves! no, truly, that is the office and employment of robust clowns, tanned by the weather, and brought up to the business, even from their christening blankets and swaddling cloaths; and, weighing one evil against another, you had better still be a knight-errant than a shepherd. Consider, Signior, and take my advice, which I do not give from a full stomach, but fresh and fasting, with fifty good years over my head: stay at home in your own house, look after your estate, go frequently to confession, be good to the poor, and let my conscience answer for the rest.’—‘Hold your peace, my good children,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘I know my own duty, and what I have to do; meanwhile carry me to bed, for methinks I am not very well; and be assured, that whether I continue knight-errant or turn shepherd, you may depend upon my good offices and assistance, as you shall find by experience.’

Comforted by this declaration, the good souls (for so they were, without doubt) carried the knight to bed, where they presented him with victuals, and cherished him with all possible care.

CHAP. XXII.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE’S LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH.

As nothing human is eternal, but every sublunary object, especially the life of man, is always declining from its origin to its decay; and Don Quixote had no particular privilege from Heaven, exempting him from the common fate, the end and period of his existence arrived, when he least expected its approach. Either in consequence of the melancholy produced by his overthrow, or by the particular dispensations of Heaven, he was seized with a calenture which detained him in bed for the space of six days, during which he was often visited by his friends; the curate, batchelor, and barber, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred from his bedside. These gentlemen, supposing his distemper proceeded from the chagrin inspired by his overthrow, and the disappointment of his hope, concerning the liberty and disenchantment of Dulcinea, endeavoured by all possible means to exhilarate his spirits. The batchelor exhorted him to chear up his heart, and forsake his couch, that they might begin their pastoral exercise, towards which he had already composed an eclogue which would disgrace all the pastorals that ever Sannazarius wrote. He likewise gave him to understand, that he had purchased with his own money from an herdsman of Quintanar, two famous dogs called Barcino and Butron, to defend their flock from the wolves. All these consolations, however, could not dispel the melancholy of Don Quixote; so that his friends called a physician, who having felt his pulse, made a very doubtful prognostick; saying, happen what would, they ought to provide for the health of his soul, as that of his body was in imminent danger; and he gave it as his opinion, that the poor gentleman was overwhelmed with melancholy and vexation. The knight heard this sentence with the most heroick composure; but that was not the case with his housekeeper, niece, and squire, who began to weep and wail most bitterly, as if they had already seen him deprived of life.

Don Quixote finding himself inclined to slumber, desired he might be left alone; and the company retiring, he is said to have slept six hours at a stretch; so that the housekeeper and niece began to fear he would never awake. Nevertheless, he awoke at the expiration of the aforesaid time, and exclaimed aloud, ‘Praised be the Almighty God, for the great benefit I have received from his bounty! His mercies know no bounds; nor are they abridged or impeded by the transgressions of man!’ The niece, who listened attentively, hearing this ejaculation, more sensible and connected than any thing he had uttered since the beginning of his illness; ‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘what do you mean? Has any thing new befallen us? What mercies and transgressions are these you mention?’—‘Mercies,’ replied the knight, ‘which Heaven hath this instant been pleased to vouchsafe unto me, notwithstanding the heinousness of my transgressions. I now enjoy my judgment undisturbed, and cleared from those dark shadows of ignorance, in which my understanding hath been involved, by the pernicious and incessant reading of those detestable books of chivalry. I am now sensible of the falsity and folly they contain; and nothing gives me concern, but that this conviction comes too late to give me time sufficient to make amends, by reading others, which would enlighten my soul. I feel myself, cousin, at the point of death; and I would not undergo that great change, in such a manner as to entail the imputation of madness on my memory; for, though I have acted as a madman, I should not wish to confirm the character, by my behaviour in the last moments of my life. Be so good, my dear child, as to send for my worthy friend the curate, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and master Nicholas the barber; for I want to confess, and make my will.’

The accidental arrival of these three, saved her the trouble of sending a message to each in particular; and Don Quixote seeing them enter, ‘Good gentlemen,’ said he, ‘congratulate and rejoice with me, upon my being no longer Don Quixote de La Mancha, but plain Alonzo Quixano, surnamed the Good, on account of the innocence of my life and conversation. I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul, and the whole infinite tribe of his descendants; now are all the profane histories of knight errantry odious to my reflection; now I am sensible of my own madness, and the danger into which I have been precipitated by reading such absurdities, which I, from dear-bought experience, abominate and abhor.’ The three friends, hearing this declaration, believed he was certainly seized with some new species of madness; and, on this supposition, Sampson replied, ‘Now, Signior Don Quixote, when we have received the news of my Lady Dulcinea’s being disenchanted, do you talk at this rate? When we are on the point of becoming shepherds, that we may pass away our time happily in singing, like so many princes, has your worship taken the resolution to turn hermit? No more of that, I beseech you; recollect your spirits, and leave off talking such idle stories!’—‘Those which I have hitherto believed, have, indeed, realized my misfortune,’ said the knight; ‘but, with the assistance of Heaven, I hope my death will turn them to my advantage.—Gentlemen, I feel myself hastening to the goal of life; and therefore, jesting apart, let me have the benefit of a ghostly confessor, and send for a notary to write my will; for in such extremities, a man must not trifle with his own soul: I entreat you, then, to call a notary; and, in the mean time, I will confess myself to Mr. Curate.’ They looked at one another, surprized at this discourse; and, though still dubious, resolved to comply with his desire: they considered this sudden and easy transition from madness to sanity, as a certain signal of his approaching death; for to those expressions already rehearsed, he added a great number so rational, so christian and well-connected, as to dispel the doubts of all present, who were now firmly persuaded, that he had retrieved the right use of his intellects. The curate having dismissed the company, confessed the penitent; while the batchelor went in quest of the notary, with whom he in a little time returned, accompanied also by Sancho, who having received an account of his master’s condition, and finding the niece and housekeeper in tears, began to pucker up his face, and open the flood-gates of his eyes.

Confession being ended, the curate came forth, saying, ‘The good Alonzo Quixano is really dying, and without all doubt restored to his senses; we may now go and see the will attested.’ These tidings gave a terrible stab to the overcharged hearts of the two ladies and his faithful squire, whose eyes overflowed with weeping, and whose bosoms had well-nigh burst with a thousand sighs and groans; for, indeed, it must be owned, as we have somewhere observed, that whether in the character of Alonzo Quixano the Good, or in the capacity of Don Quixote de La Mancha, the poor gentleman had always exhibited marks of a peaceable temper and agreeable demeanour, for which he was beloved, not only by his own family, but also by all those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance.

The notary entering the apartment with the rest of the company, wrote the preamble of the will, in which Don Quixote disposed of his soul in all the necessary Christian forms: then proceeding to the legacies, he said, ‘Item, Whereas Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness, I made my squire, has in his hands a certain sum of money for my use; and as divers accounts, disbursements, and pecuniary transactions have passed between us; it is my will, that he shall not be charged or brought to account for the said money; but, if there be any overplus, after he has deducted the payment of what I owe him, the said overplus, which must be a mere trifle, shall be his own, and much good may it do him! and as, during my disorder, I contributed to his being made governor of an island, I would now, while I enjoy my perfect senses, confer upon him, were it in my power, a whole kingdom; which he richly deserves for the innocency of his heart, and the fidelity of his service.’ Then turning to the disconsolate squire, ‘Forgive me, friend,’ said he, ‘for having been the cause of thy appearing in the eye of the world a madman, like myself; by drawing thee into my own erroneous notions, concerning the existence and adventures of knights-errant.’—‘Lack-a-day, dear Sir!’ cried Sancho, blubbering, ‘do not die; take my advice, and live many years upon the face of the earth; for the greatest madness a man can be guilty of in this life, is to let himself die outright, without being slain by any person whatever, or destroyed by any other weapon than the hands of melancholy. Hark ye, Signior! hang sloth! get up, and let us take the field in shepherds apparel, according to our agreement; who knows, but behind some bush we may find my Lady Dulcinea disenchanted, and a comely sight for to see? If you take your overthrow so much to heart, lay the blame at my door, and say you was vanquished by my carelessness, in girting Rozinante; besides, your worship must have read in your books of chivalry, that it was common for one knight to unhorse another, and for him who was vanquished to-day, to be victor to-morrow.’—‘Very true,’ said Sampson; ‘honest Sancho seems to be very well informed of these matters.’—‘Gentlemen,’ replied the knight, ‘let us proceed fair and softly, without looking for this year’s birds in last year’s nests. I was mad; but now am in my right senses. I was Don Quixote de La Mancha; but now, as I have already observed, I am Alonzo Quixano the Good: and I hope, I shall, by my veracity and repentance, recover that degree of your esteem, which I formerly enjoyed. So let Mr. Notary proceed.’

‘Item, I bequeath my whole estate, real and personal, to my niece Antonia Quixano here present, after deducting what shall be sufficient for the payment of my debts and legacies; and it is my will, that from the first of the money thence arising, the wages due to my housekeeper shall be paid, together with twenty ducats for a suit of mourning; and I appoint Mr. Curate, and Mr. Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, here present, my executors. Item, It is my will, that if my niece Antonia Quixano inclines to marriage, she shall not wed any man until she is fully satisfied, from previous information, that he is an utter stranger to books of chivalry; or, if she finds he is addicted to this kind of reading, and marries him nevertheless, she shall forfeit the whole legacy, which my executors may, in that case, dispose of in pious uses. Item, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, if perchance they should become acquainted with a certain author, who composed and published an history, entitled, “The Second Part of the Atchievements of Don Quixote de La Mancha;” that they will, in my name, most earnestly entreat him to forgive me for having been the innocent cause of his writing such a number of absurdities as that performance contains; for I quit this life with some scruples of conscience arising from that consideration.’ The will being thus concluded, he was seized with a fainting-fit, and stretched himself at full length in the bed; so that all the company were alarmed, and ran to his assistance. During three days which he lived after the will was signed and sealed, he frequently fainted, and the whole family was in confusion: nevertheless, the niece eat her victuals, the housekeeper drank to the repose of his soul, and even Sancho cherished his little carcase; for the prospect of succession either dispels or moderates that affliction which an heir ought to feel at the death of the testator.

At last Don Quixote expired; after having received all the sacraments, and in the strongest terms, pathetically enforced, expressed his abomination against all books of chivalry; and the notary observed, that in all the books of that kind which he had perused, he had never read of any knight-errant who died quietly in his bed, as a good Christian, like Don Quixote; who, amidst the tears and lamentations of all present, gave up the ghost, or in other words, departed this life. The curate was no sooner certified of his decease, than he desired the notary to make a testimonial, declaring, that Alonzo Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote de La Mancha, had taken his departure from this life, and died of a natural death; that no other author, different from Cid Hamet Benengeli, should falsely pretend to raise him from the dead, and write endless histories of his atchievements.

This was the end of the sage Hidalgo de La Mancha, whose native place Cid Hamet would not punctually describe, because he wished that all the towns and villages of that province should contend for the honour of having given him birth, as the seven cities of Greece contended for Homer. We shall here omit the lamentations of the housekeeper, niece, and squire, together with all the epitaphs, except the following, by Sampson Carrasco.

The sagacious Cid Hamet addressing himself to his pen, ‘And now, my slender quill,’ said he, ‘whether cunningly cut, or unskilfully formed, it boots not much; here, from this rack, suspended by a wire, shalt thou enjoy repose, and live to future ages, if no presumptuous and wicked hand shall take thee down, in order to profane thee in compiling idle histories. But ere such insolent fingers can touch thine hallowed plume, accost, and warn them, if thou canst, in words like these:

‘For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I produced for him; he to act, and I to record: in a word, we were destined for each other, maugre and in despight of that fictitious Tordesilian author, who has presumed, or may presume, to write with his coarse, aukward ostrich quill, the atchievements of my valiant knight; a burden too heavy for his weak shoulders, and an undertaking too great for his frozen genius. Advise him, therefore, if ever thou shouldst chance to be in his company, to let the wearied and mouldering bones of Don Quixote rest in the grave, without seeking to carry him into Old Castile^[214], in opposition to all the prerogatives of death; or to drag him from his tomb, where he really and truly lies extended at full length, and utterly incapable of making a third sally: for all the exploits performed by the whole tribe of knights-errant are sufficiently ridiculed by the two expeditions he has already made, so much to the satisfaction and entertainment, not only of Spain, but also of every foreign nation to which the fame of his adventures hath been conveyed. In so doing, thou wilt conform to thy Christian profession of doing good to those who would do thee harm; and I shall rest satisfied and perfectly well pleased, in seeing myself the first author who fully enjoyed the fruit of his writings in the success of his design: for mine was no other than to inspire mankind with an abhorrence of the false and improbable stories recounted in books of chivalry; which are already shaken by the adventures of my true and genuine Don Quixote, and in a little time will certainly sink into oblivion. Farewel.’

FINIS.