It happened, once on a time, that being on my way to Toledo, just as I was approaching the Toledana Bridge, I descried advancing towards me a student mounted on a most villainous-looking nag. The poor animal was blind of one eye, and not much better than blind of the other; neither was he very sound in the legs, if I might judge from the numerous reverences he made as he wearily moved onward. The student gravely saluted me, and I with all due courtesy returned his greeting. He spurred his poor nag with the intention of advancing more expeditiously, but the miserable animal was so worn out by old age and hard usage, that it was piteous even to behold him.

The rider whipped his horse, but the horse, heedless of the blows, showed no disposition to quicken his pace. He turned a deaf ear to all the commands of his master, who, in truth, might as well have shouted down into the depths of the well of Airon, or up to the summit of Mount Cabra.

This contest between horse and rider had proceeded for some time, to my no small diversion, when, at length, the descendant of Babieca,[48] as though suddenly roused by the severe treatment to which he was subjected, seemed determined not to proceed another foot. In proportion as he was urged to advance, he appeared resolved to stand stock still, or, rather, he shewed more disposition to go backward than forward.

Thereupon the rider flew into a furious rage, and began belabouring the unfortunate horse without mercy, though, as it proved this time, not without effect. Anticipating a smart stroke of the whip, which the upraised arm of his master was preparing to inflict, the animal began to kick and plunge, and after two or three curvets, both horse and rider came to the ground.

I, seeing this mishap, pressed forward my mule, which, by the bye, was anything but swift footed. Having reached the spot where the unlucky student lay rolling in the dust, and uttering a torrent of imprecations, I quickly dismounted, saying—“Compose yourself, seÑor, and let me assist you to rise. These accidents must be expected by persons who journey on the backs of such crazy animals.”

“Crazy animals!” said he, “your’s appears crazy enough; but I have only to thank the high spirit and mettle of mine for bringing me to this strait!”

Restraining my laughter as I best could, and with as grave a face as I was able to put on, I helped the fallen horseman to rise, which was no easy matter, for he appeared to be much hurt. Having got him upon his feet, I beheld before me the strangest figure in the world. He was short of stature, and on his shoulders there was a graceful hump, which might be likened to an estrambote,[49] tacked to a sonnet, and which brought to my recollection the stanzas in praise of hunch-backs indited by the ingenious Licentiate Tamuriz.[A] His legs were curved like two slices of melon, and his feet were encased in shoes, twelve inches long; and perhaps, without incurring any mistake, I might assign to them even greater magnitude.

The student raised his hands to his head, as if to assure himself that his pericranium had sustained no fracture. Feeling the effects of his fall, he turned to me, and, in a faint and languid tone of voice, said, that since I was a doctor (which he must have conjectured from seeing that I rode on a mule),[50] he begged I would tell him of some remedy to cure his aching bones.

I returned for answer, that I was not a doctor, but that even if I were as well skilled in the knowledge of medicine as Juan de Villalobos,[B] of the bygone time, or as Nicolo Monardes, of the time present,[C] I could prescribe for him no better physic than rest and sleep; and I added, that as noontide was advancing, the best cure for his aching bones would be to recline for a while beneath the shade of some trees which grew by the road side. There I proposed we should seek shelter against Apollo’s scorching rays, until, less oppressed by heat and weariness, we might each pursue our course.

“This is strange,” resumed the student in the same doleful tone in which he had before spoken. “Who could have imagined that by reason of the vicious temper of that unruly beast, the whole body of a bachelor of Salamanca should be thus bruised from head to foot! Mark me! I say of Salamanca, not of AlcalÁ, where none but poor miserable fellows graduate; but by so doing they lose all the privileges and immunities enjoyed by Spanish hidalgos at Salamanca. Alas! what a disaster has befallen me. They told me at the inn that I should find this horse restive and unruly. Nevertheless, he is a fine animal. His smooth sleek skin denotes his high breeding. How finely shaped are his limbs, how black and well rounded his hoofs, and so hollow and dry underneath! His pasterns are short; neither too high nor too low; thereby indicating strength. His fore-legs are sinewy, and his shins short and well formed; the knees firm, smooth, and large. How full and fleshy are his hind quarters, and how round and expanded his chest. His nostrils are so wide and distended, that one can discern the ruddy tint within them. His mouth is large, and the dilated veins are visible in every part of his fine head.”[51]

Perceiving that my friend the bachelor was preparing to extend still further the catalogue of excellent qualities which were neither possessed by his horse, nor by any of his horse’s race, I cut the matter short by saying, very composedly, “Pardon me, seÑor, if I cannot descry in your horse any of the beauties and merits which are so apparent to you. The limbs which you admire, appear to me very ill formed; the sleek skin you extol to the skies, is covered with marks and cuts; and as to his full black eyes, I wish I may lose my own eyes if I see anything in them but the overflowing of the vicious humours inherent in the nature of the miserable beast.”

To these remarks, which were taken in no ill part, my interlocutor rejoined with an air of doubt and misgiving,—“Well, probably it may be as you say, seÑor, and not as I have fancied; but still you must admit, that though I may be under a mistake, I have advanced nothing at variance with reason; and if I think I perceive what you cannot discern, my error may be occasioned by short-sightedness, a complaint from which I have suffered from my childhood, and which, being increased by much reading and no little writing, now afflicts me severely. You must know, seÑor, that on my departure from the inn, I had with me a very handsome pair of spectacles, but this mischievous animal, instigated, no doubt, by some demon that possesses him, made five or six capers (I will not be certain about the precise number), but by one of them I was thrown into the river, from whence I escaped with a good ducking and the loss of my spectacles.”

So saying, the poor fellow heaved a sigh, which seemed to come from his inmost soul; then, after a brief pause, he said,—“But without further delay, let us withdraw from the burning sunshine, to the cool shade of those broad spreading trees. There I may at least find a truce to the miseries which have this day beset me. We will tie the horse and mule to the trunks of the trees, and let them for a while feast on the grass which, in these parts, affords plentiful pasture for flocks and herds.”

“Be it so,” said I, “and since fate ordains that I am to have the happiness of enjoying your company, here we will tarry until the ardour of Phoebus shall be tempered by the cool breezes of the coming evening.”

“I have,” pursued the bachelor, “brought with me a couple of books wherewith to divert the weary hours of travelling. Both of them contain pleasant entertainment. The one consists of spiritual poetry, better than that of Cepeda.[52] The other is a book of plain prose; and is written with no great judgment or skill. Now had it so happened that instead of going from Madrid to Toledo, we had been journeying from Toledo to Madrid, I could have shewn you two excellent books, which have been sent to me as a present from SeÑor Arcediano. These books are so full of knowledge, and they treat of so many things that are and may be in the world, that with their help, a man may, without much trouble, become wonderfully wise.”[D]

Having reached the umbrageous spot, where we proposed to rest, we tied up the horse and mule, and seated ourselves on mother-earth. My companion then opened a leathern bag, which contained the books he had spoken of. The first he drew forth had for its title Versos espirituales para la conversiÓn del pecador y para el menosprecio del mundo.[53]

“This is very sweet poetry,” observed I, “and it is embued with a truly Christian spirit. I knew the author of this book—he was a friar of the order of Santo Domingo de Predicadores, at Huete, and his name was Pedro de Ezinas.[E] He was a man of genius, and of much knowledge; qualities manifested in this little work, and in many of his other writings, which are circulated in manuscript, and are much esteemed by the learned.”

“Nevertheless,” said the bachelor, “if I may candidly give my opinion, there is one thing which much offends me in this book. I dislike to see the graceful and pious language befitting to the Christian muse, mingled with the profane phraseology of heathenism. Who can be otherwise than displeased to find the names of God, of the Holy Virgin, and of the Prophets, in conjunction with those of Apollo and Daphne, Pan and Syrinx, Jupiter and Europa, Vulcan, Cupid, Venus and Mars?” He next proceeded to tell me that Father Ezinas, the author of the Versos Espirituales, was himself very fastidious about matters much less objectionable; and he related how annoyed he was, whilst performing mass, by an old woman, who, whenever the Padre repeated the words Dominus vobiscum, devoutly muttered in a croaking voice, Alabado sea Dios.[54] Father Ezinas bore with this patiently, during several days, but at length finding that the venerable Celestina persisted in her devout contumacy, he turned to her angrily, saying:—‘Truly, my good woman, you have spent your long life to little purpose, since you know not how to respond to a Dominus vobiscum, except by an Alabado sea Dios. Now do recollect that though these are very good and very holy words, yet they are unsuitable where you apply them.’

“You are quite right, friend bachelor, in your remarks on the Versos Espirituales of Ezinas. The fault you have pointed out is very objectionable; but with the exception of that fault, the work is one of the best ever written in Castilian verse, and for elevation of style, it may fairly compete with the most esteemed writings of the poets of Italy.”

“Well,” resumed the bachelor, “greatly as you admire the verses of Ezinas, I must confess that they are not so pleasing to me, nor do they sound so harmoniously to my ear, as the poetry of Aldana, or as that of an Aragonian writer, named Alonzo de la Sierra.[F] The latter is a most admirable poet, and his verses seem as if dictated by Apollo and the Nine. But,” pursued he, closing the volume of Ezinas, and drawing forth the other book from his leathern bag,—“here now is a work which, in my judgment, is not worth two ardites.[55] It is full of fooleries and absurdities;—a tissue of extravagant improbabilities:—in short, one of those works which have an injurious effect on the public taste.”

So saying, he turned over a few leaves of the book, and I, glancing my eye upon it, spied on one of the pages, the words:—el ingenioso hidalgo. For a moment I felt astounded, and like one, who, by a sudden surprise, is deprived of the power of utterance; but, soon recovering my presence of mind, I said:—

“Pardon me, seÑor, this book which you declare to be full of absurdity and nonsense, is really very diverting; and instead of being injurious in its tendency, is perfectly harmless. It is a pleasant relation of some very amusing adventures, and its author deserves to be commended, for having hit upon such a device for banishing from the republic of letters, the absurd books of knight-errantry, with their affected sentiment and bombastic phraseology. Moreover, the author of this book is bowed down by misfortunes more than by years; and though he looks forward with hope to the reward that may possibly hereafter crown his labours, yet he is nevertheless disheartened to see the world so pleased with folly and falsehood, and to witness the annoyances and hindrances thrown in the way of talent. In courts and in palaces, and among the great and the high-born, it has become the fashion to disesteem men who follow the noble profession of letters; and no arguments that can be advanced against this misjudgment, are strong enough to remove it. The consequence is, that when by chance an author of talent gains any influence by his writings, he is speedily cried down, and his life becomes a course of vexation and disappointment.”

“All persons,” said the bachelor, “do not regard books of chivalry as fictions and impostures, and their authors as inventors of falsehood and foolery. Such books, though not approved by sages, are nevertheless admired and accredited by the mass of people. There are even men of wisdom and good understanding who put faith in the reality of the valorous achievements of those knights-errant, who used to sally from their homes in quest of adventures; each devoutly repeating the name of the lady of his thoughts, and invoking her succour in the perils he was about to encounter,—perils voluntarily sought by men who could not behold a grievance without endeavouring to redress it, or a wrong without attempting to right it. Would to heaven! (and these words he uttered with a sorrowful look), that I could meet with some knight-errant who would undertake to right my wrong,—I mean my hump, which is a grievance I should like to see redressed. But for that, and these unshapely limbs, my shortness of stature, a superfluous length of nose, a peculiar stare in my eyes, and too great an expansion of mouth,—but for these trifles, I should be one of the most gallant-looking gentlemen in the world: none would be more admired by the ladies, or more envied by the men. My mother’s neighbours used to tell her when I was a little child that I was the living likeness of my father, who was a brave soldier in the army of the invincible emperor. He served in the war in Flanders, fighting in all the hottest battles and skirmishes; always the last to engage in the attack, and the first to commence the retreat. It happened one day that Captain Luis Quijada, who held a command in the Lombardy forces, perceiving my father partly concealed behind a tree, thought he was a spy, and ordered him to be seized. But my father excused himself, saying that he was watching the movements of the enemy’s infantry, for he had learned from a wounded Flemish soldier (one of the heretics), that the enemy proposed, after a feigned retreat, to make a sudden assault on our camp at its weakest point. With this, and on the intercession of some soldiers, who knew my father to be a man of courage and honour, Captain Luis Quijada pardoned him, on condition that at daybreak—”

“Stay—stay! SeÑor Licentiate,” said I, “whither are you straying? You were speaking of the ingenious hidalgo, Don Quixote de la Mancha, and, after fluttering like a butterfly from flower to flower, you have wandered to the heroic deeds of your father in the Flanders war. Between the one subject and the other, there is as much affinity as that existing between Mingo Rebulgo and Calaynos.”[56]

To this the bachelor replied—“Such as I am, God has made me. Aristotle, you know, condemns taciturn people, and the old proverb says:—‘against the silent man be on your guard.’ Therefore I think it is well to be talkative.”

“But, seÑor,” I presumed, “if you will do me the favour to listen (this I said, observing his loquacious disposition,) I would remind you of another of our old Spanish proverbs, which is al buen callar llaman sago.[G] And there is another old saying, que dice el pandero no es todo vero.”[57]

“Right,” answered the bachelor, “and no doubt you have heard the proverb andando gana la aceÑa que no estÁndose queda.[58] Therefore, sir, with your good leave, I will relate to you how my father came to be made a Captain.

“It happened one day during a violent onset with the Flemish troops, that he was going about the camp, seeking a convenient place wherein he might take refuge (this, you must know, was before I was born or even begotten), for he thought it would be well to preserve himself for greater deeds. Therefore, he was looking about for a place of safety, where, alike unobserved by the troops of the Spanish camp and by those of the League, he might save his life and person, as I have said, for greater things.”

“Rather say for smaller things,” interrupted I, “since he saved himself to become your father. Now, seeing that you are so very little, and that your father saved himself to beget you, how can it be said that he saved himself for greater things?”

To this my companion replied, that though he knew himself to be very little, yet that he was not so diminutive as some persons affected to think him.

“But,” added he, pursuing his story, “you must know that my father was going about the camp in the way I have described, and seeing that the two wings of the Imperial army were hotly engaged with the enemy, he felt impelled to lay his hand on his sword; a trusty weapon, which, though it had been unsheathed, and had seen daylight on several occasions of urgent necessity, yet, on all those occasions, it had modestly shrunk back into the scabbard unstained with hostile blood. To tell all my father’s valorous deeds in the battle, would be a long and tedious tale; but the sum of his prowess is well known to fame in my native place, Villar del Olmo, and its environs. Laden with upwards of thirty heads of the heretics whom he had slain, he presented himself, after the victory, to the illustrious emperor, who was at that moment engaged in dictating to his maestre de campo, Alonzo Vivas, the three notable words of Julius CÆsar, which he repeated in Spanish, altering the third, as became a Christian prince, in this wise,—‘Vine, vi y Dios venciÓ.’[H] The emperor, elated with his victory, and thinking it a fitting time to distribute rewards, conferred on my father the rank of captain. And though there were not wanting malicious tongues to declare that my father had cut off the heads from dead bodies, as they lay on the field of battle, yet nevertheless he was made a captain, in spite of the murmurs of envious slanderers, who are at all times ready to disturb the peace of the community; and in truth, whether my father’s merits were great or small, he did not think it advisable to make them a matter of dispute.”

“Now,” said I, “since you have at length brought your story to an end we will again turn to this book called ‘Don Quixote.’ You say it is full of absurdities and nonsense, but I do assure you that some who have read it, pronounce it to be as entertaining as any work ever written in Spain, and they affirm that it is full of humour and truth. True, it is sailing with no very fair wind over the stormy ocean of criticism; which is only one of the many misfortunes that assail its author; but the tardiness of the learned to approve this work, may possibly redound to its future fame and glory.”

“This book,” pursued my companion, “which you say is so diverting, and written with so reasonable and praiseworthy an object, appears to me exceedingly silly and irrational. Can anything be more absurd than the idea of curing the taste for reading books of chivalry, (which are objected to because of their falsehood and extravagance) by the perusal of another book still more false and extravagant? Who can imagine a man so infatuated as to put faith in the stories related in such books, and at length becoming so crazy as to sally from his home in quest of adventures, fancying himself to be out and out a knight-errant; and not even the many cudgellings he receives can drive the insane notions from his head. When did the luckless author ever see such lunatics wandering at large through the world?”

Hereupon the bachelor ran into a string of questions worthy of that most indefatigable of questioners the lately defunct Almirante,[I] and he wound up his interrogatories by saying, “Can any one persuade himself into the belief that Palmerius of England, Florindos and Floriandos are to be seen going about armed cap-À-pie, like the figures in old tapestry on tavern walls?[J] I would advise this author,” pursued he, “to cultivate for better objects the talent he undoubtedly possesses, and to write no more such stupid books as this Don Quixote, which will never out-root from the popular mind the vitiated taste for books of chivalry. I would tell him all this and much more, for I am not at a loss for words, neither am I wanting in memory or information; and I feel a desire to correct and castigate the faults of others, though unluckily I cannot mend my own. Moreover, you must know, that I am a philosopher, and that I have studied in the new school of DoÑa Oliva,[K] the knowledge of myself; and whosoever acquires self knowledge, may be said to possess no trivial attainment. Let me tell you, moreover, that the doctrine of DoÑa Oliva is not to be despised because it comes from a woman; for there have been many women in the world whose learning has entitled them to respect and admiration. Without looking back to remoter times, I may mention the recently deceased Countess de Tendilla, the mother of the three Mendozas, whose names will be proclaimed to remote ages by the voice of Fame.[L] Then there was Madama Passier, whose rare genius and eloquence have been swept away by death, like the vine by the keen wind of October. In honour of her literary attainments that lady was buried with pompous funeral rites, and many learned men have written elegies to her memory. There is a book of letters by Madama Passier, full of erudition and sound morality, which I would recommend to the attention of the author of Don Quixote.”[M]

“How, friend bachelor,” exclaimed I, “do you deny that knights-errant are existing in the world in this our age of iron? And does your memory so far fail that you forget how many persons implicitly believe all the extravagant stories related in books of chivalry,—stories which every one, down to the most ignorant of the common people, know by heart? Need I call to your recollection the mad exploits of that famous knight, Don Suero de QuiÑones, who, with nine gentlemen, his companions, demanded leave of the most high and puissant King of Castile, John II. to rescue his liberty, (held captive by a lady) by breaking three hundred lances in the space of thirty days, with certain knights and gentlemen who might enter the lists against him. And surely you must remember how the said knight, Don Suero de QuiÑones defended the Honroso Paso, near the bridge of Orbigo; and how he was there disburthened of the iron collar which he wore every Thursday round his neck in token of servitude and captivity. And with him fought in defence of the pass, Lope de EstuÑiga, Diego de BazÁn, Pedro de Nava, and other hidalgos, to the number of nine, all of them devoted knights-errant. They shivered lances with more than seventy adventurers, who went thither to prove their skill and prowess. Surely these were knights-errant of real flesh and blood, and not mere puppets. The conflict of the Paso Honroso is narrated in a book written by a friar named Pineda, who abridged it from an old manuscript work.[N] Moreover, friend bachelor, have you not heard of the adventure of the Canon Almela, who was at the conquest of Grenada, with two horsemen and seven followers on foot? Such was his veneration for knight-errantry and everything connected with it, that he collected and preserved all sorts of old and worthless objects, because he believed they had belonged to certain renowned heroes of the days of chivalry. He wore girded at his side a sword which he affirmed had belonged to the Cid Ruy DÍaz.[O] This he said he knew from certain letters inscribed on the sword, though, in fact, those letters were perfectly illegible, and neither he nor any one else could decipher them.”

“All that you say is perfectly true, SeÑor Soldado,” replied the bachelor; “and I have only to observe that the events to which you allude are all of old date. Without going quite so far back, let us see what happened in the time of the Emperor Charles V., who directed a certain Bishop of Bordeaux, (and he would have cared as little for saying the same to Archbishop Turpin) to inform the King of France that he had acted with rudeness and discourtesy. Whereupon a messenger was shortly after despatched from the said King of France, and another from King Henry of England, summoning the emperor to meet them in the lists conformably with the laws of chivalry. Now, I recollect having been told by my father, (who was a man well versed in these points of honour, though he did not himself act upon them, for certain reasons of his own,) that the great emperor finding himself challenged with all the solemnity of the laws of the duelo, took counsel of his cousin, Don Diego, Duke del Infantado, as to the course he ought to pursue.[P] Don Diego advised him by no means to accept the challenge; for seeing that the King of France owed his majesty a large debt, the consequence would be that all debts, known and acknowledged would be settled by recourse to arms, a thing at variance with reason and justice. Rest assured that such absurd encounters have no existence save in silly books of chivalry, and in plays which in our time have been taken from them, but which in the time of Lope de Rueda, Gil Vicente, and Alonso de Cisneros would not have been tolerated on the stage.”[Q]

“Nevertheless,” pursued my loquacious companion, after a brief pause, “methinks I should like to see a return of the good old days of knight-errantry. How I should enjoy setting forth some fine morning to the chase, with hounds and huntsmen, dressed in the cuero,[59] lined with squirrel skin, such as used to be worn by great lords when they went a-hunting, and with a horn slung round my neck. And when in the thickets of the forest, suppose a storm should come on, the wind blowing and the rain pouring, and in midst of the darkness, suppose I should lose my way in an intricate place, where no one can venture to penetrate for fear of the wild beasts that infest it. And there, perchance, I meet a courteous prince, comely and valiant, who like myself has lost his way. The young prince may have left his court and wandered unattended in quest of adventures. He may be named the Knight of the Griffin, or the Knight of the Red Scarf. He is courteous and fair of speech, and seeing in me a knight of noble comportment, he kindly offers me consolation in my trouble. And lo! all on a sudden there appears an ugly little dwarf, who says, ‘Prepare, Knight of the Griffin, or of the Red Scarf, (or whatsoever surname he may bear,) prepare for the most marvellous adventure that ever knight-errant encountered. Know that the Princess Bacalambruna, who by the death of her father, Borborifon, (he of the wry nose,) has become mistress of the fair castle whose white walls rise in yonder plain, is deeply enamoured of you, whom she regards as the model of perfection in chivalry. When night draws her dark mantle over the earth, wend your way to the castle, whose gates will be open to receive you; there the beauteous princess awaits your coming.’

“With these words the hideous little dwarf vanishes. Then let us suppose that the Knight of the Griffin, addressing himself to me, declares that he cannot go to the enchanted castle to visit the princess, because he is in love with the beauteous Arsinda, the daughter of King Trapobana Quinquirlimpuz. Hearing this I determine to go in his stead, and to present myself to the lovely Princess Bacalambruna. Mounting my fiery steed I gallop off, and speedily reach the gates of the enchanted castle. I enter without any one attempting to stop me, and, what is still more strange, without any one coming out to greet me, a thing quite at variance with the laws of courtesy. We will suppose that night has now set in, and I find in the court-yard of the castle a torch ready lighted. Straightway it places itself before my eyes, and moves onward to light me. The torch leading the way, and I following, I soon find myself in a splendid palace, all glittering with gold, silver, and precious stones. I enter a sumptuous chamber, covered with a carpet of silk, embroidered with gold, where I behold the Princess Bacalambruna anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Knight of the Griffin. She is surprised and alarmed on beholding me, and enraged at the disappointment, she rushes from the chamber to give orders for my death. With this, I appeal for succour to a malignant old enchanter, who shews his malice by pretending not to hear me. But my lucky star ordains that a lady, on whom I never bestowed a thought, though, on her part, she is deeply enamoured of me, and who is one of the noblest ladies in all the realm of Transylvania, (Mari HernÁndez or Juana PÉrez, by name,) at that moment enters the apartment. Taking me by the hand, she conducts me to the great hall of the castle, where several fierce-looking men are waiting in readiness to dispatch me. They are about to draw their swords, but good fortune once more befriends me, and DoÑa Mari HernÁndez addresses them, saying,—

“‘Hold, SeÑores! this is not the knight whom the princess has ordered you to put to death. This is only a squire who is going to travel across the seas. When the knight comes out kill him.’

“With this the lady conducts me to the castle-gate, where I mount my horse. The lady heaves a deep sigh, and I promise to wed her when I return to the castle, which, however, in consideration of the danger I have so narrowly escaped, I resolved never to do.

“Suppose that once more I set out to seek my fortune, and that after journeying for a time I arrive in a town where the lists are prepared for a grand tournament. There I behold the emperor and his daughter. The princess is arrayed in rich brocade, and seated in a chair of state adorned with jewels. She is frightfully ugly, but in spite of that she has come to preside at the tournament, flattering herself that some adventurous knight will enter the lists to compete for the possession of her superlative charms. Seeing that no one is in a hurry to offer, I propose to try my fortune. But at sight of me the spectators immediately begin to shout scoffingly,—‘Here comes the Knight of the Hump—the flower of chivalry!’

“Undismayed, I spur my horse and gallop into the lists, where I shiver a lance in the presence of the emperor and his daughter. Thereupon the princess falls in love with me, and entreats her father’s leave to bestow upon me her hand. The emperor consents, and calling me to the platform, he rewards my gallantry with the hand of the princess, who has for her dower a kingdom, and for her subjects a nation of dwarfs. Thus, from a bachelor of Salamanca (and not of AlcalÁ), I become nothing less than a king.”[60]

“Friend bachelor,” observed I, “for the life of me I cannot comprehend how the just and reasonable reply of the Duke del Infantado to the invincible emperor, can warrant the inference that knights-errant were at that period banished from the world. On the contrary, we know that Micer Oliver de la Marcha was then living, though in a very advanced old age. He was a knight of the court of the Duke of Burgundy, Philip the Good, and he afterwards figured in the court of the duke’s daughter, DoÑa MarÍa, the consort of the Emperor Maximilian, and mother of Philip the Fair. This same Oliver de la Marcha married DoÑa Juana, a daughter of the King of Castile, and he wrote a book entitled El Caballero Determinado, which like many of the romances of chivalry then circulated, was very ingenious, though full of extravagances. El Caballero Determinado was written in French, from which language it was translated by Don Hernando de AcuÑa, who transferred it into very graceful Castilian verse.[R]

“Moreover you must also recollect what is related of Mario de Abenante, a Neapolitan knight, who challenged another knight, Don Francisco Pandon, also of Naples. Both entered the lists furiously defying each other. Don Francisco made a thrust at Mario’s horse, and wounded the animal, so that he was well-nigh falling. Mario was unconscious of his danger until his uncle, who was within the lists, beckoned him to dismount, which he did, and then, with great alertness, he inflicted a wound on the horse of his adversary. The animal became restive, and began to kick and plunge in such a manner that Don Francisco found himself constrained to surrender. Mario’s conduct on this occasion called forth severe censure from all who witnessed it, and he was declared to be a coward and a traitor. Neither can you have forgotten other feats of knight-errantry which have taken place in these present times; as for example, that passage of arms when a knight named Leres challenged another named MartÍn LÓpez. Both met in single combat in Rome, armed with lances and cuirasses. In the midst of the conflict it happened that the horse of MartÍn LÓpez stumbled and fell. LÓpez was stunned by the fall, and Leres, thinking it cowardly to strike his adversary as he lay on the ground, was preparing to dismount; but in so doing he also stumbled and fell. Seeing this accident, MartÍn LÓpez, with an effort, raised himself up, and fearing lest fortune should not grant him such another opportunity, he turned upon Leres, and in that cowardly manner subdued him. Setting aside all these events, you cannot but recollect the happy journey of King Don Philip II. (now in glory), who, when he was Infante, travelled from Spain into his territories in Flanders and Brabant. The whole history is in print, as related by Juan Calvete de Estrella.”[S]

“I know the book you speak of,” eagerly interrupted the bachelor. “It is one of the most entertaining that ever appeared since the world has been the world, or at least since the art of printing has been known. It contains nothing but truth, and that cannot be said of the writings of all historians, some of whom give currency to falsehood by narrating events which never took place.[T] My father was in the suite of the Infante in that journey to Flanders; but in consequence of an adventure with a lady in which he became entangled, he was forced to return in all haste to Spain. On his road, he encountered more adventures than ever befel that Monster of Fortune,[61] Antonio PÉrez.[V] Finally, he was returning home angry and fretful, like one stung by an asp——.”

Here I cut him short, for I was fearful that he was preparing to enter upon one of his tedious and inapt tales. So imitating the serpent, which, with curious perversity, closes her ears when she wishes not to hear the enchanter’s voice, I pretended not to hear what he was saying, and I thus proceeded,

“In Binche, as you probably know, sundry knights who were in that town appeared in the presence of the emperor Semper Augusto, and the prince his son. They stated that a certain enchanter, a foe to virtue and knight-errantry, and one whom all accounts describe to have been more malignant than Arcalaus,[U] and a greater heretic than Constantino,[W] had taken refuge in Gallia Belgica, and somewhere near to the town of Binche.”

“Do you not recollect the name of that enchanter?” eagerly interrupted the bachelor.

“No, on my faith, I do not,” replied I; “but I doubt not he had a very hideous name; like all those evil spirits whose mischievous doings are narrated in books of chivalry. I have heard of a certain author who, during the space of several days, puzzled himself sorely to fix on a name for an enchanter whom he introduced into one of his stories. His object was to find a pompous, high-sounding name, which would be expressive of the enchanter’s character. The author in question happened one day to be visiting the house of a friend where he and others were playing at cards. During the game, the master of the house calling to one of the servants, said,—‘Hola Coelio! trae aquÍ cantos!’—(Hola Coelio! bring hither some stones!)[62] These words fell with such sonorous emphasis on the ear of our author, that he immediately rose from the card-table, and, without taking leave of his friends, he straightway hurried home, where he wrote down the name Traquicantos, with which he baptized his enchanter....

“But to return to the magician of Binche, of whom I was just now speaking. By his fiendish arts he spread dismay among the inhabitants of the neighbouring country, doing all sorts of mischief, and threatening still greater harm. The knights ascertained that the said enchanter dwelt in a palace which, being continually enveloped in a hazy cloud, was invisible even to those who had the courage to seek to discover it.[X] But it happened that a virtuous princess, deeply versed in the occult sciences of foresight and foreknowledge, seeing the mischief wrought by the enchanter, declared that within a certain lofty mountain-peak there was hidden a sword possessing singular power, as was denoted by the following lines inscribed on it:—

“‘Whosoever shall draw forth this sword from the stone within which it is hidden, will terminate these evils, and dispel these enchantments; and will restore to freedom the prisoners now languishing in cruel captivity. Finally, he will hurl to destruction the enchanter’s gloomy castle, and he will, moreover, achieve many other good deeds which, though not here declared, are, nevertheless, promised and predestined.’

“The knights implored the emperor’s permission to undertake this mighty adventure. The permission was accorded, and the knights passed two whole days in performing, in the presence of the emperor and the prince, certain crazy exploits similar to those we read of in books of chivalry—those mischevous creations of idle imagination. Now, I leave you to weigh and consider (with the sound judgment which must dwell in the mind of a SeÑor Bachelor of Laws)[63] the fact that the said knights actually performed these feats, or rather these fooleries, and that they were approved by the emperor and the prince Don Philip, who derived therefrom much entertainment. And will it be said that there are not other madmen in the world besides the ingenious knight of La Mancha, when such as these find favour in the eyes of emperors and kings?[Y] But the fools so thickly scattered through this Christian realm cannot endure that the reading of this said book Don Quixote should have the effect of convincing the unlettered common people that romances of chivalry are filled with improbabilities alike adverse to reason and common sense. Therefore it is that they attack the book with such determined fury and perversity, picking faults in it, and seeking to prove that there are no persons in the world so mad as to put faith in the reality of the stories related in books of chivalry. But the courts of kings, to say nothing of more humble places, are full of such madmen, for courts are the birthplaces of madness of every kind. These people say and do all sorts of crazy things: they enter upon insane enterprises to their own injury, and there is no possibility of convincing them of their errors. And these, forsooth, are the persons who find fault with the illustrious knight Don Quixote, the mirror not only of all crazy La Manchians, but of all crack-brained Spaniards; indeed, it may be said, that he is the clear reflection of all madmen throughout the world. For these reasons, instead of being depreciated, the work deserves to be prized and esteemed by all right-judging persons, inasmuch as it is the only one of all the many stories of chivalry that has been written with an honest and useful purpose. After all, the delusions of Don Quixote are less absurd than many things related in those romances: and from time immemorial there have been numberless lunatics in the world who have not, in the general opinion, been accounted mad. The laudable intention of the author was to banish the false order of knight-errantry, by the highly-seasoned dish of diversion presented in his true history.”

Just as I uttered these words, the bachelor’s unlucky nag, by a sudden leap, snapped the reins by which he was fastened up; he had taken a fancy to sport with the mule who, tied to the trunk of an old oak, was quietly reposing on the grass. The mule, however, with becoming dignity, evinced her dislike of such familiarity by several smart kicks. One of them, aimed at the one eye of the poor horse which still retained some little power of vision, rendered it as blind as the other. In another instant a severe kick laid him prostrate on the earth, to all appearance bringing to an end the miseries of the horse, and the falls of his rider.

At this unexpected disaster, and naturally expecting that the poor animal, which lay struggling and gasping, was about to draw his last breath, the bachelor vented his grief in a torrent of lamentations, at the same time bitterly reproaching himself for the little caution he had observed in securing the safety of the precious jewel which he had probably hired from the stables of Colmenares.[64] He began to curse the hour when he had set out on his luckless journey.

I, to console him, said, “After all, SeÑor Bachelor, this misfortune has happened not inopportunely. But a minute ago you were observing that the book called Don Quixote is full of absurd extravagances. Now, a truce with your lamentations, and recall to your memory that famous adventure of the Knight of La Mancha when he encountered the most disastrous of all his misfortunes—I mean when he met with the Yangueses on his departure from Chrysostom’s funeral, on which occasion Rosinante had a narrow escape with his life.”

“LlÉveme el Diablo!” exclaimed the bachelor in a rage. “Truly I wish you and your Don Quixote were a hundred leagues off. Since the moment when I first set eyes on you, as many disasters have beset me as though I were under the ban of excommunication.” So saying, he made an effort, though a vain one, to raise up his horse, which was sorely hurt, and now quite blind; at every tug of the reins he slowly thrust forward one or the other of his feet, with languid movements indicative of expiring life.

Seeing that the disaster was past all remedy, and that the sun, already receding over the mountain-tops, was about to set in his ocean-bed, I took a courteous leave of my luckless companion. But he, wholly engrossed by his great, albeit useless, efforts to raise up his horse, neither heard my farewell, nor saw my departure. There I left him, venting imprecations and uttering complaints against his evil star. I can even fancy that I hear him now. What afterwards became of him I know not, nor did I inquire. Mounting my trusty mule, I forthwith pursued my way to Toledo, and evening had set in when I entered the city gates.

I rode straightway to the house of one of my friends, where I for a time took up my abode. Turning over in my mind what had occurred, I resolved to write this my adventure, hoping thereby to undeceive the many persons who fancy they see in the ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote, that which the ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote is not. Therefore I give to this little book[65] the name of BuscapiÉ, hoping that they who seek to discover the foot with which the Knight of La Mancha limps, may find (God be praised) that he is not lame with either; but that he stands stoutly and firmly on both, and ready to enter into single combat with the stupid and grumbling critics, who, like wasps, buzz about to the injury of society.

And now, Friend Reader, if I have given you some entertainment, or if any of the observations I have made be worthy your remembrance, I shall be much gratified, and may God have you in his holy keeping.

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