How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd, and lead a rural life for the year's time he was obliged not to bear arms; with other passages truly good and diverting.

They travelled on conversing together till they came near the place where the bulls had run over them; and Don Quixote knowing it again, "Sancho," said he, "yonder is that meadow where we met the fine shepherdesses, and the gallant shepherds, who had a mind to renew or imitate the pastoral Arcadia. It was certainly a new and ingenious conceit. If thou thinkest well of it, we will follow their example, and turn shepherds too, at least for the time I am to lay aside the profession of arms. I will buy a flock of sheep, and every thing that is fit for a pastoral life; and so calling myself the shepherd Quixotis, and thee the shepherd Pansino, we will range the woods, the hills, and meadows, singing and versifying. We will drink the liquid crystal, sometimes out of the fountains, and sometimes from the purling brooks and swift-gliding streams. The oaks, the cork-trees, and chestnut-trees, will afford us both lodging and diet, the willows will yield us their shade, the roses present us their inoffensive sweets, and the spacious meads will be our carpets, diversified with colours of all sorts; blessed with the purest air, and unconfined alike, we shall breathe that, and freedom. The moon and stars, our tapers of the night, shall light our evening walks. Light hearts will make us merry, and mirth will make us sing. Love will inspire us with a theme and with wit, and Apollo with harmonious lays. So shall we become famous, not only while we live, but we shall make our loves eternal as our songs."

"Sure enough," quoth Sancho, "this sort of life suits me to a hair; and I fancy that, if the bachelor Sampson Carrasco and Master Nicholas have but once a glimpse of it, they will even turn shepherds too; nay, it is well if the curate does not put in for one among the rest, for he is a notable joker, and merrily inclined." "That was well thought on," said Don Quixote; "and then, if the bachelor will make one among us, as I doubt not but he will, he may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or Carrascon; and Master Nicholas, Niculoso. For the curate, I do not well know what name we shall give him, unless we should call him the shepherd Curiambro. As for the shepherdesses with whom we must fall in love, we cannot be at a loss to find them names, there are enough for us to pick and choose; and, since my lady's name is not improper for a shepherdess, any more than for a princess, I will not trouble myself to get a better; thou mayest call thine as thou pleasest." "For my part," quoth Sancho, "I do not think of any other name for mine than Teresona; that will fit her full well, and is taken from her Christian name too. So, when I come to mention her in my verses, every body will know her to be my wife, and commend my honesty as being contented with my own." "Bless me," said Don Quixote, "what a life shall we lead! What a melody of oaten reeds and Zamora pipes shall we have resounding in the air! what intermixture of tabors, morrice-bells, and fiddles! And if to all the different instruments we add the albogues, we shall have all manner of pastoral music." "What are the albogues?" quoth Sancho; "for I do not remember to have seen or ever heard of them in my life."

"They are," said Don Quixote, "a sort of instruments made of brass plates, rounded like candlesticks: the one shutting into the other, there rises, through the holes or stops, and the trunk or hollow, an odd sound, which, if not very grateful or harmonious, is, however, not altogether disagreeable, but does well enough with the rusticity of the bagpipe or tabor. You must know the word is Moorish, as indeed are all those in our Spanish that begin with al, as Almoasa, Almorsar, Alhombra, Alguasil, Alucema, Almacen, Alcanzia, and the like, which are not very many. And we have also but three Moorish words in our tongue that end in i; and they are, Borcequi, Zaquicami, and Maravedi; for, as to Alheli and Alfaqui, they are as well known to be Arabic by their beginning with al, as their ending in i. I could not forbear telling thee so much by the by, thy query about albogue having brought it into my head. There is one thing more that will go a great way towards making us complete in our new kind of life, and that is poetry. Thou knowest I am somewhat given that way, and the bachelor Carrasco is a most accomplished poet, to say nothing of the curate, though I will hold a wager he is a dabbler in it too; and so is Master Nicholas, I dare say; for all your barbers are notable scrapers and songsters. For my part, I will complain of absence; thou shalt celebrate thy own loyalty and constancy; the shepherd Carrascon shall expostulate on his shepherdess's disdain; and the pastor Curiambro choose what subject he likes best; and so all will be managed to our heart's content. But no more at this time—it grows late—let us leave the road a little, and take up our quarters yonder in the fields; to-morrow will be a new day." They did accordingly, and made a slender meal, as little to Sancho's liking as his hard lodging; which brought the hardships of knight-erranting fresh into his thoughts, and made him wish for the better entertainment he had sometimes found, as at Don Diego's, Camacho's, and Don Antonio's houses. But he considered, after all, that it could not be always fair weather, nor was it always foul; so he betook himself to his rest till morning, and his master to the usual exercise of his roving imaginations.

Don Quixote, after his first sleep, thought nature sufficiently refreshed, and would not yield to the temptations of a second. Sancho, indeed, did not enjoy a second, but from a different reason. For he usually made but one nap of the whole night; which was owing to the soundness of his constitution, and his inexperience of cares, that lay so heavy upon Don Quixote.

"Sancho," said the knight, after he had pulled the squire till he had waked him too, "I am amazed at the insensibility of thy temper. Thou art certainly made of marble or brass, thou liest so without either motion or feeling. Thou sleepest while I wake; thou singest while I mourn; and while I am ready to faint for want of sustenance, thou art lazy and unwieldy with mere gluttony. It is the part of a good servant to share in the afflictions of his master. Observe the stillness of the night, and the solitary place we are in. It is a pity such an opportunity should be lost in sloth and inactive rest; rouse for shame, step a little aside, and with a good grace and a cheerful heart, score me up some three or four hundred lashes upon thy back, towards the disenchanting of Dulcinea. This I make my earnest request, being resolved never to be rough with thee again upon this account; for I must confess thou canst lay a heavy hand on a man upon occasion. When that performance is over, we will pass the remainder of the night in chanting, I of absence, and thou of constancy, and so begin those pastoral exercises which are to be our employment at home."

"Sir," answered Sancho, "do you take me for a monk or a friar, that I should start up in the middle of the night, and discipline myself at this rate? Or do you think it such an easy matter to scourge myself one moment, and fall a-singing the next? Look you, sir; say not a word more of this whipping; if the bare brushing of my coat would do you any good, you should not have it, much less the currying of my hide; and so let me go to sleep again." "O obdurate heart!" cried Don Quixote; "O nourishment and favours ill bestowed! Is this my reward for having got thee a government, and my good intentions to get thee an earldom, or an equivalent at least, which I dare engage to do when this year of our obscurity is elapsed? for, in short, post tenebras spero lucem." "That I do not understand," quoth Sancho; "but this I very well know, that I have worst luck of any physician under the cope of heaven; other doctors kill their patients, and are paid for it too, and yet they are at no further trouble than scrawling two or three cramp words for some physical slip-slop, which the apothecaries are at all the pains to make up. Now here am I, that save people from the grave, at the expense of my own hide, pinched, run through with pins, and whipped like a top, and yet never a cross I get by the bargain. But if ever they catch me a-curing any body in this fashion, unless I have my fee beforehand, may I be served as I have been, for nothing. No money, no cure, say I." "You are right, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for my part, had you demanded your fees for disenchanting Dulcinea, you should have received them already; but I am afraid there can be no gratuity proportionable to the greatness of the cure; and therefore I would not have the remedy depend upon a reward; for who knows whether my proffering it, or thy acceptance of it, might hinder the effect of the penance? However, since we have gone so far, we will put it to a trial: come, Sancho, name your price, and begin. First scourge yourself, then pay yourself out of the money of mine that you have in your custody." Sancho, opening his eyes and ears above a foot wide at this fair offer, leaped presently at the proposal. "Ay, ay, sir, now, now you say something," quoth he; "I will do it with a jerk now, since you speak so feelingly: I have a wife and children to maintain, sir, and I must mind the main chance. Come, then, how much will you give me by the lash?" "Were your payment," said Don Quixote, "to be answerable to the greatness and merits of the cure, not all the wealth of Venice, nor the Indian mines, were sufficient to reward thee. But see what cash you have of mine in your hands, and set what price you will on every stripe." "The lashes," quoth Sancho, "are in all three thousand three hundred and odd, of which I have had five; the rest are to come. Let these five go for the odd ones, and let us come to the three thousand three hundred. At a quartillo, or three halfpence a-piece (and I will not bate a farthing, if it were to my brother), they will make three thousand three hundred three-halfpences. Three thousand three-halfpences make fifteen hundred threepences, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals or sixpences. Now the three hundred remaining three-halfpences make an hundred and fifty threepences, and threescore and fifteen sixpences; put that together, and it comes just to eight hundred and twenty-five reals, or sixpences, to a farthing. This money, sir, if you please, I will deduct from yours that I have in my hands; and then I will reckon myself well paid for my jerking, and go home well pleased, though well whipped. But that is nothing; for he must not think to catch fish who is afraid to wet his feet. I need say no more." "Now blessings on thy heart, dearest Sancho!" cried Don Quixote; "O my friend, how shall Dulcinea and I be bound to pray for thee, and serve thee while it shall please Heaven to continue us on earth! If she recover her former shape and beauty, as now she infallibly must, her misfortune will turn to her felicity, and I shall triumph in my defeat. Speak, dear Sancho; when wilt thou enter upon thy task? and a hundred reals more shall be at thy service, as a gratuity for thy being expeditious." "I will begin this very night," answered Sancho; "do you but order it so that we may lie in the fields, and you shall see how I will lay about me."

Don Quixote longed for night so impatiently, that, like all eager expecting lovers, he fancied Phoebus had broken his chariot-wheels, which made the day of so unusual a length; but at last it grew dark, and they went out of the road into a shady wood, where they both alighted, and, being sat down upon the grass, they went to supper upon such provisions as Sancho's wallet afforded.

And now having satisfied himself, he thought it time to satisfy his master, and earn his money. To which purpose he made himself a whip of Dapple's halter; and having stripped himself to the waist, retired farther up into the wood at a small distance from his master. Don Quixote, observing his readiness and resolution, could not forbear calling after him; "Dear Sancho," cried he, "be not too cruel to thyself neither; have a care, do not hack thyself to pieces: make no more haste than good speed; go gently to work, soft and fair goes farthest; I mean, I would not have thee kill thyself before thou gettest to the end of the tally; and that the reckoning may be fair on both sides, I will stand at a distance and keep an account of the strokes by the help of my beads; and so Heaven prosper thy pious undertaking!" "He is an honest man," quoth Sancho, "who pays to a farthing; I only mean to give myself a handsome whipping; for do not think I need kill myself to work miracles." With that he began to exercise the instrument of punishment, and Don Quixote to tell the strokes. But by the time Sancho had struck seven or eight lashes, he felt the jest bite so smartly, that he began to repent him of his bargain. Whereupon, after a short pause, he called to his master, and told him that he would be off with him; for such lashes as these were modestly worth threepence a-piece of any man's money; and truly he could not afford to go on at three-halfpence a lash. "Go on, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "take courage and proceed; I will double thy pay, if that be all." "Say you so?" quoth Sancho; "then have at all. I will lay it on thick and threefold. Do but listen." With that, slap went the scourge; but the cunning knave left persecuting his own skin, and fell foul of the trees, fetching such dismal groans every now and then, that one would have thought he had been dying. Don Quixote, who was naturally tender-hearted, fearing he might make an end of himself before he could finish his penance, and so disappoint the happy effects of it: "Hold," cried he, "hold, my friend; as thou lovest thy life, hold, I conjure thee: no more at this time. This seems to be a very sharp sort of physic. Therefore, pray do not take it all at once, make two doses of it. Come, come, all in good time; Rome was not built in a day. If I have told right, thou hast given thyself above a thousand stripes; that is enough for one beating; for, to use a homely phrase, the ass will carry his load, but not a double load; ride not a free horse to death." "No, no," quoth Sancho, "it shall never be said of me, the eaten bread is forgotten; or that I thought it working for a dead horse, because I am paid beforehand. Therefore stand off, I beseech you; get out of the reach of my whip, and let me lay on the other thousand, and then the back of the work will be broken: such another flogging bout, and the job will be over." "Since thou art in the humour," replied Don Quixote, "I will withdraw, and Heaven strengthen and reward thee!" With that, Sancho fell to work afresh, and beginning upon a new score, he lashed the trees at so unconscionable a rate, that he fetched off their skins most unmercifully. At length, raising his voice, seemingly resolved to give himself a settling blow, he lets drive at a beech-tree with might and main: "There!" cried he, "down with thee Samson, and all that are about thee!" This dismal cry, with the sound of the dreadful strokes that attended it, made Don Quixote run presently to his squire, and laying fast hold on the halter, "Hold," cried he, "friend Sancho, stay the fury of thy arm. Dost thou think I will have thy death, and the ruin of thy wife and children to be laid at my door? Forbid it, Fate! Let Dulcinea stay a while, till a better opportunity offer itself. I myself will be contented to live in hopes, that when thou hast recovered new strength, the business may be accomplished to every body's satisfaction." "Well, sir," quoth Sancho, "if it be your worship's will and pleasure it should be so, so let it be, quoth I. But, for goodness' sake, do so much as throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I have no mind to catch cold: we novices are somewhat in danger of that when we first undergo the discipline of flogging." With that Don Quixote took off his cloak from his own shoulders, and putting it over those of Sancho, chose to remain in his doublet; and the crafty squire, being lapped up warm, fell fast asleep, and never stirred till the sun waked him.

In the morning they went on their journey, and after three hours' riding alighted at an inn; for it was allowed by Don Quixote himself to be an inn, and not a castle, with moats, towers, portcullises, and drawbridges, as he commonly fancied; for now the knight was mightily off the romantic pin to what he used to be, as shall be shewn presently at large. He was lodged in a ground-room, which, instead of tapestry, was hung with a coarse painted stuff, such as is often seen in villages. One of the pieces had the story of Helen of Troy, when Paris stole her away from her husband Menelaus; but scrawled out after a bungling rate by some wretched dauber or other. Another had the story of Dido and Æneas—the lady on the top of a turret, waving a sheet to her fugitive guest, who was in a ship at sea, crowding all the sail he could to get from her. Don Quixote made this observation upon the two stories, that Helen was not at all displeased at the force put upon her, but rather smiled upon her lover; whereas, on the other side, the fair Dido shewed her grief by her tears, which, because they should be seen, the painter had made as big as walnuts. "How unfortunate," said Don Quixote, "were these two ladies, that they lived not in this age; or rather, how much more unhappy am I, for not having lived in theirs! I would have met and stopped those gentlemen, and saved both Troy and Carthage from destruction; nay, by the death of Paris alone, all these miseries had been prevented." "I will lay you a wager," quoth Sancho, "that before we be much older, there will not be an inn, a hedge-tavern, a blind victualling-house, nor a barber's shop in the country, but will have the story of our lives and deeds pasted and painted along the walls. But I could wish with all my heart, though, that they may be done by a better hand than the bungling fellow that drew these." "Thou art in the right, Sancho; for the fellow that drew these puts me in mind of Orbaneja, the painter of Uveda, who, as he sat at work, being asked what he was about, made answer, any thing that comes uppermost; and if he chanced to draw a cock, he underwrote, This is a cock, lest the people should take it for a fox. Just such a one was he that painted, or that wrote (for they are much the same) the history of this new Don Quixote that has lately peeped out, and ventured to go a-strolling; for his painting or writing is all at random, and any thing that comes uppermost. But to come to our own affairs. Hast thou an inclination to have the other brush to-night? what think you of a warm house? would it not do better for that service than the open air?"

"Why, truly," quoth Sancho, "a whipping is but a whipping, either abroad or within doors; and I could like a close warm place well enough, so it were among trees; for I love trees hugely, do you see; methinks they bear me company, and have a sort of fellow-feeling of my sufferings." "Now I think on it," said Don Quixote, "it shall not be to-night, honest Sancho; you shall have more time to recover, and we will let the rest alone till we get home; it will not be above two days at most." "Even as your worship pleases," answered Sancho; "but if I might have my will, it were best making an end of the job, now my hand is in and my blood up. There is nothing like striking while the iron is hot; for delay breeds danger. It is best grinding at the mill before the water is past. Ever take while you may have it. A bird in hand is worth two in the bush." "Now good Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "let alone thy proverbs; if once thou beginnest, I must give thee over. Canst thou not speak as other folks do, and not after such a tedious, round-about manner? How often have I told thee of this? Mind what I tell you; I am sure you will be the better for it." "It is an unlucky trick I have got," replied Sancho; "I cannot bring you in three words to the purpose without a proverb, nor bring you any proverb but what I think to the purpose; but I will mend, if I can." And so they went on direct towards their own village.