The pleasant discourse between Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the bachelor Samson Carrasco.

Don Quixote could not be persuaded that there was a history of himself extant, while yet the blood of those enemies he had cut off had scarce done reeking on the blade of his sword; so that they could not have already finished and printed the history of his mighty feats of arms. However, at last he concluded that some learned sage had, by the way of enchantment, been able to commit them to the press, either as a friend, to extol his heroic achievements above the noblest performances of the most famous knights-errant; or as an enemy, to sully the lustre of his exploits, and debase them below the most inferior actions of any of the meanest squires. Though, thought he to himself, the actions of squires were never yet recorded; and after all, if there were such a book printed, since it was the history of a knight-errant, it could not choose but be pompous, lofty, magnificent, and authentic. This thought yielded him a while some small consolation; but then he relapsed into melancholic doubts and anxieties, when he considered that the author had given himself the title of Cid, and consequently must be a Moor; a nation from whom no truth could be expected, they all being given to impose on others with lies and fabulous stories, to falsify and counterfeit, and very fond of their own chimeras. Sancho and Carrasco found him thus agitated and perplexed with a thousand melancholic fancies, which yet did not hinder him from receiving the stranger with a great deal of civility.

This bachelor, though his name was Samson, was none of the biggest in body, but a very great man at all manner of drollery; he had a pale complexion, but good sense. He was about four-and-twenty years of age, round-visaged, flat-nosed, and wide-mouthed, all signs of a disposition that would delight in nothing more than in making sport for himself, by ridiculing others; as he plainly discovered when he saw Don Quixote. For, falling on his knees before him, "Admit me to kiss your honour's hand," cried he, "most noble Don Quixote; for by the habit of St. Peter, which I wear, though indeed I have as yet taken but the four first of the holy orders, you are certainly one of the most renowned knights-errant that ever was, or ever will be, through the whole extent of the habitable globe. Blest may the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli be, for enriching the world with the history of your mighty deeds; and more than blest, that curious virtuoso, who took care to have it translated out of the Arabic into our vulgar tongue, for the universal entertainment of mankind!"

"Sir," said Don Quixote, making him rise, "is it then possible that my history is extant, and that it was a Moor, and one of the sages, that penned it?" "It is so notorious a truth," said the bachelor, "that I do not in the least doubt but at this day there have already been published above twelve thousand copies of it. Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have been printed, can witness that, if there were occasion. It is said that it is also now in the press at Antwerp. And I verily believe there is scarce a language into which it is not to be translated." "Truly, sir," said Don Quixote, "one of the things that ought to yield the greatest satisfaction to a person of eminent virtue, is to live to see himself in good reputation in the world, and his actions published in print. I say, in good reputation; for otherwise there is no death but would be preferable to such a life." "As for a good name and reputation," replied Carrasco, "your worship has gained the palm from all the knights-errant that ever lived; for, both the Arabian in his history, and the Christian in his version, have been very industrious to do justice to your character; your peculiar gallantry; your intrepidity and greatness of spirit in confronting danger; your constancy in adversities; your patience in suffering wounds and afflictions; and your modesty in that love so very platonic between your worship and my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso." "But pray," added Don Quixote, "good Mr. Bachelor, on which of all my adventures does the history seem to lay the greatest stress?" "As to that," answered Carrasco, "the opinions of men are divided: some cry up the adventure of the windmill giants; some are for that of the fulling-mills; others stand up for the description of the two armies that afterwards proved two flocks of sheep. Some prize most the adventure of the dead corpse that was carrying to Segovia; while others say that none of them can compare with that of the galley-slaves. However, some who have read your history wish that the author had spared himself the pains of registering some of that infinite number of drubs which the noble Don Quixote received." "There lies the truth of the history," quoth Sancho. "Those things, in human equity," said Don Quixote, "might very well have been omitted; for actions that neither impair nor alter the history, ought rather to be buried in silence than related, if they redound to the discredit of the hero of the history. Certainly Æneas was never so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so prudent as he is made by Homer." "I am of your opinion," said Carrasco; "but it is one thing to write like a poet, and another thing to write like an historian. It is sufficient for the first to deliver matters as they ought to have been; whereas the last must relate them as they were really transacted, without adding or omitting any thing, upon any pretence whatever." "Well," quoth Sancho, "if this same Moorish lord be once got into the road of truth, a hundred to one but among my master's rib-roastings he has not forgot mine; for they never took measure of his worship's shoulders but they were pleased to do as much for my whole body: but it was no wonder; for it is his own rule, that if once the head aches, every limb must suffer too."

"Hold your tongue," said Don Quixote, "and let the learned bachelor proceed, that I may know what the history says of me." "And of me too," quoth Sancho; "for they tell me I am one of the top parsons in it." "Persons, you should say, Sancho," said Carrasco, "and not parsons." "Heyday!" quoth Sancho, "have we got another corrector of hard words? If this be the trade, we shall never have done." "Most certainly," said Carrasco, "you are the second person in the history, honest Sancho; nay, and some there are who had rather hear you talk than the best there; though some there are again that will say you were horribly credulous to flatter yourself with having the government of that island which your master promised you." "While there is life there is hope," said Don Quixote; "when Sancho is grown mature with time and experience, he may be better qualified for a government than he is yet." "If I be not fit to govern an island at these years," quoth Sancho, "I shall never be a governor, though I live to the years of Methusalem; but there the mischief lies, we have brains enough, but we want the island." "Come, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "hope for the best; trust in providence; all will be well, and perhaps better than you imagine; but know, there is not a leaf on any tree that can be moved without the permission of Heaven." "That is very true," said Carrasco; "and I dare say Sancho shall not want a thousand islands to govern, much less one; that is, if it be Heaven's will." "Why not?" quoth Sancho; "I have seen governors in my time who, to my thinking, could not come up to me passing the sole of my shoes; and yet, forsooth, they were called 'your honour,' and they eat their victuals all in silver." "Ay," said Carrasco, "but these were none of your governors of islands, but of other easy governments: why, man, these ought at least to know their grammar." "Gramercy, for that," quoth Sancho; "give me but a grey mare[11] once, and I shall know her well enough, I'll warrant ye. But leaving the government in the hands of him that will best provide for me, I must tell you, Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, I am huge glad that, as your author has not forgot me, so he has not given an ill character of me; for by the faith of a trusty squire, had he said any thing that did not become a Christian as I am, I had rung him such a peal that the deaf should have heard me." "That were a miracle," said Carrasco. "Miracle me no miracles," cried Sancho; "let every man take care how he talks, or how he writes of other men, and not set down at random, higgle-de-piggledy, whatever comes into his noddle."

"The author," continued Carrasco, "has made every thing so plain, that there is nothing in that book but what any one may understand. Children handle it, youngsters read it, grown men understand it, and old people applaud it. In short, it is universally so thumbed, so gleaned, so studied, and so known, that if the people do but see a lean horse, they presently cry, 'There goes Rozinante.' But none apply themselves to the reading of it more than your pages; there is never a nobleman's antechamber where you shall not find a Don Quixote. No sooner has one laid it down, but another takes it up. One asks for it here, and there it is snatched up by another. In a word, it is esteemed the most pleasant and least dangerous diversion that ever was seen."[12]