wine-bag, which, that the contents might be cooler, was hung upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote was less tedious in his discourse than at his meal, which being ended, one of the goatherds said, "That your worship knight-errant may be convinced of our readiness and good-will to give you all the entertainment in our power, you shall have the pleasure and satisfaction of hearing a song from one of our companions, who will soon be here. He is an understanding young fellow, very much in love, who, more over, can read and write, and play upon the rebec, that it will delight you to hear him." Scarce had the goatherd pronounced these words, when their ears were saluted with the sound of this instrument, and presently after appeared the musician, who was a young fellow of about twenty or twenty-two years of age, and of a very graceful appearance. His companions asked him if he had supped, and he answering in the affirmative, one of them, who made the offer to the knight, said to him, "If that be the case, Antonio, you will do us the pleasure to sing a song, that this gentleman our guest may see that there are some even among these woods and mountains who understand music. We have already informed him of thy uncommon talents, and we desire thou wouldst show them, in order to justify what we have said in thy praise; I therefore earnestly beseech thee to sit down and sing the ballad of thy love, composed by thy uncle the curate, which is so much commended in our village." "With all my heart," replied the young man, who, without farther entreaty, sat down upon the trunk of an ancient oak, and, tuning his instrument, began in a very graceful manner to sing and accompany the following song:

You love, Olalla, nay adore me;

In spite of all your art I know it,
Although you never smile before me,
And neither tongue nor eyes avow it.
For, sure to slight a lover's passion,

So tried as that which lives this heart in,
Were but small proof of penetration;

And that you are no fool is certain.
Sometimes, indeed, and 'tis amazing,

Though proved by evidence of twenty,
You've plainly shewn your soul was brazen,
And eke your snowy bosom flinty.

Yet, in the midst of maiden shyness,

Affected scorn and decent scolding,

Kind Hope appear'd with proffer'd spy-glass,
The border of her robe unfolding.

Then balance in the scales of reason,
My love unshaken and untainted,

Unapt to change from truth to treason,
By frowns impair'd, by smiles augmented.
If love be courtesy refined,

And you be civil to profusion,
That you will to my hopes prove kind,
Is but a natural conclusion.

If gratitude that breast can soften,
Which bids to other arts defiance,
The services I've render'd often,

Must melt your soul to kind compliance.

For, more than once, had you attended,

You might have seen me wear on Monday, My best apparel, scour'd and mended, With which I wont to honour Sunday.

As love delights in finery,

And women oft are won by tightness, I've still endeavour'd in your eye

To shine the mirror of politeness. That I have danced the swains among,

To please your pride what need I mention,
Or with the cock begun my song,
To wake my sleeping fair's attention.
Or that, enamour'd of your beauty,
I've loudly sounded forth its praises;
A task which, though a lover's duty,
The spite of other women raises.

For, once, Teresa of the hill,
Beneath all notice would have sunk ye,
"You think Olalla angel still,

(Said she) but others scorn the monkey. "Thanks to her beads of glittering glass, And her false locks in ringlets curling, And the false colour of her face, Which Love himself might take for sterling."

She ly'd, I told her, in her throat ;

And when her kinsman kept a racket, You know I made him change his note, And soundly thrash'd the booby's jacket. Your lovely person, not your wealth,

At first engaged my inclination; Nor would I now possess, by stealth,

The guilty joys of fornication. The church has silken ties in store,

Then yield thy neck to Hymen's fetters; Behold, I put my own before,

And trust the noose that binds our betters.

Else, by each blessed saint I swear,
And Heav'n forbid I prove a liar!
Never to quit this desert drear,
Except in form of hooded friar.+

Thus ended the goatherd's ditty; and though Don Quixote desired him to sing another, yet Sancho Panza would by no means give his consent, being more inclined to take his natural rest than to hear ballads; and therefore he said to his master, "Your worship had better consider where you are to lodge this night; for the labour that these honest men undergo in the day will not suffer them to pass the night in singing."—" I understand thee, Sancho (replied the knight), it plainly appears that the visits thou hast made to the wine-bag demand the consolation of sleep rather than that of music." They agreed with us all very well, blessed be God," replied Sancho. "I do not deny it (said the knight), and thou may'st bestow thyself in the best manner thou canst, but it is more seemly for those of my profession to watch than to sleep; it would not be amiss, however, Sancho, to dress my ear again; for it gives me more pain than I could wish." Sancho did as he desired: when one of the goatherds perceiving the wound, bade him give himself no trouble about it, for he would apply a remedy that would heal it in a trice; so saying, he took some leaves of rosemary, which grew in great plenty round the hut, and having chewed and mixed them with a little salt, applied the poultice to his ear, and, binding it up carefully, assured him, as it actually happened, that it would need no other plaster.

CHAP. IV.

What was related by a goatherd, who chanced to come into the hut.

In the mean time, another of the lads, who brought them victuals from the village, entering the hut, said, "Do you know what has happened in our town, comrades?" When one of them answered, "How should we?"-" Know then (continued he,) that the famous student Chrysostom died this morning; and it is murmured about, that his death was occasioned by his love for that devilish girl Marcella, daughter of William the Rich; she that roves about these plains in the habit of a shepherdess." "For Marcella, said you?" cried one. "The same (answered the goatherd); and it is certain, that in his last will he ordered himself to

be buried in the field like a Moor (God bless us!) at the foot of the rock, hard by the corktree spring; for, the report goes, and they say he said so himself, as how the first time he saw her was in that place; and he has also ordained many other such things, as the clergy say must not be accomplished, nor is it right they should be accomplished; for truly they seem quite heathenish: to all which objections his dear friend, Ambrosio the student, who also dressed himself like a shepherd to keep him company, replies, that he will perform every thing without fail that Chrysostom has ordered; and the whole village is in an uproar about it. But it is believed that every thing at last will be done according to the desire of Ambrosio, and all the rest of the shepherds, his friends; and that tomorrow he will be interred with great pomp in the very spot I have mentioned. I am resolved therefore, as it will be a thing well worth seeing, to go thither without fail, even though I thought I should not be able to return to the village that night." "We will do so too (replied the goatherds), and cast lots to see which of us must stay and take care of our flocks." "You are in the right, Pedro (said one), but there will be no occasion to use that shift; for I myself will stay and take care of the whole, and you must not impute my tarrying to virtue, or the want of curiosity, but to the plaguy thorn that ran into my foot the other day, and hinders me from walking."-" We are obliged to thee, however," answered Pedro, whom Don Quixote desired to tell him who that same dead shepherd and living shepherdess were.

To this question the goatherd replied, all that he knew of the matter was, that the deceased was the son of a rich farmer, who lived in the neighbourhood of a village in these mountains; that he had studied in Salamanca many years, at the end of which he had returned to his fa mily with the character of a great scholar: in particular, they said, he was very knowing in the science of the stars, and what passed betwixt the sun and moon, and the heavens; for he had punctually foretold the clipse of them both!

The obscuration of those two great luminaries (said the knight), is called the eclipse, and not the clipse, friend." But Pedro, without troubling his head with these trifles, proceeded, saying," he likewise foresaw when the year would be plentiful or steril." "You mean

VOL. III.

X

sterile," said Don Quixote. "Sterile, or staril (replied Pedro), comes all to the same purpose; and I say, that his father and his friends taking his advice, became very rich; for they gave credit to his words, and followed his counsel in all things. When he would say, this year you must sow barley and no wheat; here you must sow carabances, but no barley; next year there will be a good harvest of oil; but for three years to come there will not be a drop." "That science (replied Don Quixote) is called astrology." "I know not how it is called (replied Pedro); but this I know, that he knew all this, and much more. In short, not many months after he came from Salamanca, he appeared all of a sudden in shepherd weeds, with his woolly jacket, and a flock of sheep, having laid aside the long dress of a student. And he was accompanied by a friend of his in the same habit, whose name was Ambrosio, and who had been his fellow-student at college. I forgot to tell you, that Chrysostom the defunct was such a great man at composing couplets, that he made carols for Christmas-eve, and plays for the Lord's day, which were represented by the young men in our village; and every body said, that they were tip-top. When the people of the village saw the two scholars so suddenly clothed like shepherds, they were surprised, and could not guess their reason for such an odd change. About that time the father of this Chrysostom dying, he inherited great riches, that were in moveables and in lands, with no small number of sheep more or less, and a great deal of money: of all which this young man remained desolate lord and master; and truly he deserved it all; for he was an excellent companion, very charitable, a great friend to good folks, and had a most blessed countenance. Afterwards it came to be known, that his reason for changing his garb was no other than with a view of strolling through the woods and deserts after that same shepherdess Marcella, whose name my friend mentioned just now, and with whom the poor defunct Chrysostom was woundily in love: and I will now tell you, for it is necessary that you should know who this wench is; for mayhap, nay even without a mayhap, you never heard of such a thing in all the days of your life, though you be older than St Paul."* "Say Paul's," replied Don Quixote, offended at the goatherd's perverting the words. "St Paul was no chicken (replied Pedro), and if your worship be resolved to correct my words every moment, we shall not have done in a twelvemonth."-"I ask your pardon, friend (said the knight); I only mention this, because there is a wide dif

ference between the person of St Paul and a church that goes by his name: but, however, you made a very sensible reply; for, to be sure, the saint lived long before the church was built: therefore go on with your story, and I promise not to interrupt you again.”

"Well then, my good master (said the goatherd), there lived in our village a farmer, still richer than Chrysostom's father; his name was William, and God gave him, over and above great wealth, a daughter, who at her birth was the death of her mother, the most worthy dame in all the country. Methinks I see her now with that face of hers, which seemed to have the sun on one side and the moon on the other; she was an excellent housewife, and a great friend to the poor, for which reason I believe her soul is enjoying the presence of God in paradise. Her husband died of grief for the loss of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcella, young and rich, to the care of an uncle, who has got a living in our village. The girl grew up with so much beauty, that she put us in mind of her mother, who had a great share, and yet it was thought it would be surpassed by the daughter's. It happened accordingly; for when she came to the age of fourteen or fifteen, nobody could behold her without blessing God for having made so beautiful a creature; and every body almost grew desperately in love with her. Her uncle kept her up with great care; but, for all that, the fame of her exceeding beauty spread in such a manner, that both for her person and her fortune, not only the richest people in our town, but likewise in many leagues about, came to ask her in marriage of her uncle, with much importunity and solicitation. But he, who, to give him his due, was a good Christian, although he wanted to dispose of her as soon as she came to the age fit for matrimony, would not give her away without her own consent; neither had he a view in deferring her marriage, to the gain and advantage which he might enjoy in managing the girl's fortune. And, truly, I have heard this spoken in more companies than one, very much to the praise of the honest priest. For I would have you know, sir traveller, that in these small towns people intermeddle and grumble about every thing. And this you may take for certain, as I know it to be so, that a clergyman must be excessively good indeed, if he can oblige his flock to speak well of him, especially in country villages. "You are certainly in the right (said Don Quixote), and pray go on, for your story is very entertaining, and you, honest Pedro, relate it with a good grace." "May I never want God's grace (said the

goatherds arising, went to waken Don Quixote, and told him, that if he continued in his resolution of going to see the famous funeral of Chrysostom, they would keep him company. The knight, who desired nothing better, arose, and commanded Sancho to saddle his horse and pannel his ass immediately. This order was executed with great despatch, and they set out without loss of time. They had not travelled more than a quarter of a league, when, upon crossing a path, they saw coming towards them six shepherds, clothed in jackets of black sheep skin, and crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter-bay, each having a club of holly in his hand. Along with them came also two gentlemen on horseback, very well equipped for travel, accompanied by three young men on foot.

When they advanced they saluted one another, and understanding, upon inquiry, that they were all bound to the place of interment, they joined company, and travelled together. One of the horsemen said to his companion, "Signor Vivaldo, we shall not have reason to grudge our tarrying to see this famous funeral, which must certainly be very extraordinary, by the strange account we have received from these people, of the dead shepherd and the murderous shepherdess."-" I am of the same opinion (answered Vivaldo), and would not only tarry one day, but even four or five, on purpose to see it." Don Quixote asking what they had heard of Marcella and Chrysostom, the traveller replied, that early in the morning they had met with these shepherds, of whom inquiring the cause of their being clothed in such melancholy weeds, they had been informed of the coyness and beauty of a certain shepherdess called Marcella, and the hapless love of many who courted her, together with the death of that same Chrysostom to whose funeral they were going. In short, he recounted every circumstance of what Pedro had told Don Quixote before.

This conversation being ended, another began, by Vivaldo's asking Don Quixote why he travelled thus in armour in a peaceable country? To this question the knight replied, "The exercise of my profession will not permit or allow me to go in any other manner. Revels, feasting, and repose, were invented by effeminate courtiers; but toil, anxiety, and arms, are peculiar to those whom the world calls knightserrant, of which order I, though unworthy, and the least, am one." He had no sooner pronounced these words, than all present took him for a madman: but, in order to confirm their opinion, and discover what species of madness it was, Vivaldo desired to know what he meant by knights-errant. "What! (said Don Quixote), have you never read the annals and history of England, which treat of the famous exploits of Arthur, who, at present, in our Castilian language, is called King Artus, and of whom

there is an ancient tradition, generally believed all over Great-Britain, that he did not die, but was, by the art of enchantment, metamorphosed into a raven ; and that the time will come when he shall return, and recover his sceptre and throne: for which reason it cannot be proved, that, from that period to this, any Englishman has killed a raven. In the reign of that excellent king was instituted that famous order of chivalry called the Knights of the Round Table; and those amours punctually happened which are recounted of Don Lancelot of the Lake, with Queen Ginebra, by the help and mediation of that sage and venerable duenna Quitaniona, from whence that delighful ballad, so much sung in Spain, took its rise:

For never sure was any knight

So served by damsel, or by dame,
As Lancelot, that man of might,

When he at first from Britain came.

With the rest of that most relishing and delicious account of his amours and valiant exploits. From that time the order of knighterrantry was extended, as it were, from hand to hand, and spread through divers and sundry parts of the world, producing, among many other worthies celebrated for their achievements, the valiant Amadis de Gaul, with all his sons and nephews, even to the fifth generation; the courageous Fleximarte of Hircania, the neverenough-to-be-commended Tirante the White, and he whom, in this our age, we have as it were seen, heard, and conversed with, the invincible and valorous knight Don Belianis of Greece. This, gentlemen, is what I meant by knight-errant; and such as I have described is the order of chivalry, which, as I have already told you, I, though a sinner, have professed; and the very same which those knights I mentioned professed, I profess also. On which account I am found in these deserts and solitudes, in quest of adventures, fully determined to lift my arm, and expose my person to the greatest danger that my destiny shall decree, in behalf of the needy and oppressed."

By this declaration, the travellers were convinced that the knight had lost his wits, and easily perceived the species of folly which had taken possession of his brain, and which struck them with the same surprise that always seized those who became acquainted with our knight. Vivaldo, who was a person of discretion and a great deal of archness, in order to travel agreeably the rest of the road which they had to go, till they should come to the place of interment, wanted to give him an opportunity of proceeding in his extravagance; and, in that view, said to him, "Sir knight-errant, methinks your worship professes one of the strictest orders upon earth, nay, I will affirm, more strict than that of the Carthusian friars.”