No More Learning



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CELTIC LITERATURE
3444
«<
Under happier conditions to-day, the latest expression of this vital
persistence of the Welsh in the quest of spiritual ideals is the move-
ment that has carried the new national university to completion,
and rallied the younger generation under the banner of Cymru
Fydd" (Young Wales). The songs of Ceiriog Hughes, the poems of
Islwyn, the works of scholars like Professor John Rhys, Canon Sil-
vain Evans, and Mr. Gwenogfvyn Evans; the ardent writing and
editing of Mr. Owen M. Edwards in his innumerable magazines and
other adventures; and the novels of Daniel Owen,
- these may be
named as among the influences that count most to the Wales of the
nineteenth century's end.
NOTE. - For citations from Welsh literature see articles on Aneurin, Mabi-
nogion, and Taliesin. The Breton branch of Celtic literature will be treated
under the heading (Villemarqué,' the celebrated collector of Barzaz-Breiz. ›
IV CORNISH
―――――
THE literature of a single county of England is not likely to be
very extensive, and when that literature and its language died for
good and all, a century ago, it becomes still more limited. Until the
reign of Henry VIII. , though for some time English had been very
generally spoken throughout the county, the old Celtic Cornish, hold-
ing a middle position, philologically as well as geographically, between
Welsh and Breton, was the mother tongue of at any rate the peas-
antry as far east as the Tamar. The great ecclesiastical revolution
of that period helped to destroy it. Neither prayer-book nor Bible
was translated into it; and though the ardently Catholic Cornish at
first would have none of the former, saying that it was "but like a
Christinas game," they were overruled by the forcible argument of
"apostolick blows and knocks," and had to submit. Then the lan-
guage receded rapidly. By the time of the Great Rebellion Truro
was its eastern limit; early in the eighteenth century only the two
western claw-like promontories retained it; and though Dolly Pent-
reath, who died in 1778, was not really the last person who spoke it,
it was dead before the present century was born. A few traditional
sentences, the numerals up to twenty, and some stray words lingered
on until our own day,-twenty years ago the present writer took
down a fair collection from the mouths of ancient mariners in
Mount's Bay, and a few words are still mixed with the local dia-
lect of English. But as a language Cornish is dead, though its ghost.
still haunts its old dwelling in the names of villages, houses, woods,
valleys, wells, and rocks, from Tamar to Penwith.


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CELTIC LITERATURE
3445
As may be expected, a great proportion of the literature is in
verse, and most of that is in dramatic form. So little is there that
an exhaustive list of what survives is quite possible. It is as fol-
lows:-
1. The Poem of the Passion. A versified account of the Passion of
our Lord, recounting the events from Palm Sunday to Easter, with
the addition of many legendary incidents from the Gospel of Nico-
demus and other similar sources. The earliest MS. (in the British
Museum) is of the fifteenth century, which is probably the date of
its composition. It has been twice printed, once by Davies Gilbert,
with a translation by John Keigwin in 1826, and by Dr. Whitley
Stokes in 1862.
2. The Ordinalia. Three connected dramas, known collectively
under this title. The first recounts the Creation and the history of
the world as far as Noah's Flood. The second act of this gives the
story of Moses and of David and the Building of Solomon's Temple,
ending with the curiously incongruous episode of the martyrdom of
St. Maximilla, as a Christian, by the bishop placed in charge of the
Temple of Solomon. The second play represents the life of our Lord
from the Temptation to the Crucifixion, and this goes on without a
break into the third play, which gives the story of the Resurrection
and Ascension, and the legend of the death of Pilate. The connect-
ing link between the three is the legend of the wood of the cross.
This well-known story, most of which is interwoven with the whole
trilogy, is as follows:- Seth was sent by his dying father to beg the
promised Oil of Mercy to save him; the angel who guarded Paradise
gave him three seeds, or, according to the play, apple-pips; and when
he returned and found his father already dead, he placed them in
Adam's mouth and buried him on Mount Moriah. In process of time
the three seeds grew into three trees, and from them Abraham gath-
ered the wood for the sacrifice of Isaac, and Moses got his rod
wherewith he smote the sea and the rock. Later the three trees, to
symbolize the Trinity, grew into one tree, and David sat under it to
bewail his sin. But Solomon cut it down to make a beam for the
Temple, and since it would in no wise fit into any place, he cast it
out and set it as a bridge over Cedron. Later on he buried it, and
from the place where it lay there sprang the healing spring of Beth-
esda, to the surface of which it miraculously floated up, and the
Jews found it and made of it the Cross of Calvary.
These plays were probably written in the fifteenth century, per-
haps by one of the priests of Glazeney College near Falmouth, and
were acted with others that are now lost in the places called Planan-
Guare (the Plain of the Play), of which several still remain. The
'Ordinalia' were published with a translation by Edwin Norris in 1859.


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3446
CELTIC LITERATURE
3. The Creation of the World, with Noah's Flood, was a modernized
version of the first act of the first of the Ordinalia' trilogy. It was
written by William Jordan of Helston in 1611; but the author has
borrowed whole passages of considerable length from the older play.
The language represents a later period of Cornish, and occasionally
several lines of English are introduced. Perhaps by a natural Celtic
antipathy to the Saxon, these are generally put into the mouths of
Lucifer and his angels, who furnish a good deal of the comic part of
the piece. This play was published by Davies Gilbert in 1827, and
by Dr. Whitley Stokes in 1864.
4. The Life of St. Meriasek. This play, written in 1504, is per-
haps the most interesting of the batch. The story at least of the
others contains nothing very new to most people, but St. Meriasek
or Meriadoc (to give him his Breton name), the patron of Camborne,
is not a well-known character, and his life, full as it is of allusions
and incidents of a misty period of Cornish history, is most curious
and interesting. It is not perhaps simplified by being mixed up in
the wildest manner with the legend of Constantine and St. Sylvester,
and the scenes shift about from Cornwall or Brittany to Rome, and
from the fourth to the Heaven-knows-what century, with bewildering
frequency. There are also certain other legends interwoven with the
story, and it seems probable that at least three plays have been, as
Dr. Whitley Stokes expresses it, "unskillfully pieced together. " Yet
there are many passages of considerable literary merit. The only
existing MS. of this play is in the Hengwrt collection at Peniarth,
and it was edited and translated by Dr. Stokes in 1872.
5. There were probably many other plays which have perished,
but one other there certainly was, of which a fragment exists.
What it was called or what it was about no one knows, but an actor
in it, setting about to learn his own part in it, wrote that short
piece of thirty-six lines on the back of a title-deed of some land in
the parish of St. Stephen, near Bodmin. The deed drifted eventu-
ally into the British Museum, and the present writer discovered the
Cornish verses on it, not wholly by accident, about nineteen years
ago.
The writing belongs to the latter part of the fourteenth cen-
tury, and is therefore the earliest literary fragment of the language.
6. The rest of the literature of the Cornish language consists of a
few songs, epigrams, mottoes, proverbs, and the like, a short disserta-
tion on the language, and the tale of John of Chy-an-Hur,' a widely
known folk-tale. These are mostly in the latest form of Cornish,
and are contained in the MS. collection of William Gwavas in the
British Museum and in that of Dr. Borlase, until lately in the pos-
session of his descendants. Most of them have been printed by
Davies Gilbert (with the play of the 'Creation'), by William Pryce


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CELTIC LITERATURE
3447
in the Archæologia Cornu-Britannica' in 1790, by Mr. W. C. Bor-
lase in the Transactions of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, and
in a fragmentary way in a few other places. They are mostly trans-
lations or adaptations from the English, but a few, such as the
rather doggerel Pilchard Fishing Song,' are originals. Lastly, in
the Church of St. Paul, near Penzance, there is the one solitary epi-
taph in the language; written while it was still just alive, and per-
haps the last composition in it.
[The versions given of these specimens of Cornish literature are founded
on those of Dr. Whitley Stokes and Dr. E. Norris. The phraseology has been
to some extent altered, but the renderings are almost all the same. ]
FROM THE POEM OF THE PASSION >
[The Death of Our Lord on the Cross]
HIS
Is pain was strong and sharp, so that he could not live,
But must yield up his white soul; ever purely had he
lived.
And Christ prayed, as thus in many a place we read,
"My soul I do commend, O Lord, between thy hands! "
For weakly he breathed, being constrained, so that he could not
rest;
On nothing could he lean his head for the garland that he wore.
If he leaned to one side, for his shoulder it grieved him
And the tree did yet worse, if he set it backwards.
Nor could he lean forward for fear of being choked.
Then was it as we read in books as it is written:-
"For the birds to make their nests, places are prepared,
But for Christ where he may lay his head no place is found. "
But now must he needs leave his head to hang,
For his blood was all gone from him, and he could not live.
To the side of the Mother that owned him, his head he would
hold,
And his soul went from him with chilling shriek and shrill cry.
Beside the Cross of Jesus was a man hight Sentury,
And when he saw the wondrous things that happened at Christ's
death,
And how his soul he yielded, against nature, with a cry,
He said without scorning, "This truly was God's Son; "
And many were there with him that testimony bore.


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3448
CELTIC LITERATURE
Now was it midday in the land, or later, as is written.
Earthquake there was and lightning, and darkness over all;
The Temple Veil was rent in twain, and to the ground it fell,
And likewise broken were the stones so strong and hard.
Graves in many places were opened wide,
And the bodies that were in them were raised up,
And went straightway to the city-by many were they seen-
To bear witness that it was God's Son that was slain.
Water, earth, and fire, and wind, sun, moon, and stars likewise,
At Christ's suffering death knew sorrow.
Nature will cause, I trow, if the good Lord be pained,
All his subjects, even saints, to be grieved for his pain.
FROM ORIGO MUNDI,' IN THE ORDINALIA'
[Seth, being sent to fetch the oil of mercy from Paradise for his dying
father, comes to the guardian cherub. ]
Cherubin-Seth, what is thine errand,
That thou comest so far?
Seth-
Cherubin
Seth-
Tell me anon.
O Angel, I will tell it thee:
My father is old and weary;
He wishes no longer to live;
And through me he prayed thee
To tell the truth
Of the oil of mercy promised
To him at the last day.
Within the gate put thou thy head,
And behold it all, nor fear,
Whatever thou seest.
And look on all sides,
Spy out every detail,
Search out everything carefully.
Very gladly I will do it;
I am glad to have permission
To know what is there
And tell it to my father.
[And he looks and turns round, saying:
Fair field to behold is this;
Hapless he who lost the land.
But for the tree I wonder greatly
That it should be dry.
But I trow that it went dry


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CELTIC LITERATURE
3449
Cherubin
Seth
-
Seth-
―――
Seth-
And all was made bare, for the sin
Which my father and mother sinned.
Like the prints of their feet,
They all became dry as herbs,
Alas, when the morsel was eaten.
O Seth, thou art come
Within the gate of Paradise:
Tell me what thou sawest.
All the beauty that I saw
Tongue of man can never tell,
Of good fruits and beauteous flowers,
Of minstrels and sweet song,
Cherubin-Look yet again within,
Cherubin
A fountain bright as silver,
And flowing from it four great streams,
That there is a desire to gaze upon them.
In it there is a tree,
-
High and with many boughs,
But they are bare and leafless.
Bark there is none around it;
From the stem to the head
All its branches are bare.
And below when I looked,
I saw its roots
Even into hell descending,
In the midst of great darkness;
And its branches growing up
Even to heaven high in light.
And it was wholly without bark,
Both the head and the boughs.
And all else thou shalt see
Before thou come from it.
I am happy to have leave;
I will go to the gate at once,
Cherubin - Dost thou see more now
That I may see further good.
[He goes and looks and returns.
Than what there was just now?
There is a serpent in the tree:
Truly a hideous beast is he.
Go yet the third time to it,
And look better at the tree.
Look what you can see on it
Besides roots and branches.


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3450
CELTIC LITERATURE
Seth-
-
Cherubin, angel of the God of grace,
High in the branches of the tree I saw
A new-born child, wrapped in swaddling clothes
And bound with bands.
Cherubin It was God's son that thou sawest,
Like a child in swaddling clothes.
He will redeem Adam thy father
With his flesh and blood likewise,
When the time is come,
And thy mother and all good people.
He is the oil of mercy
Which was promised to thy father.
Through his death truly
Shall all the world be saved.
William Sharpe
Emert
Rhys


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CERVANTES.


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2451
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11.


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3451
CERVANTES
(1547-1616)
BY GEORGE SANTAYANA
ERVANTES is known to the world as the author of 'Don Quixote,'
and although his other works are numerous and creditable,
and his pathetic life is carefully recorded, yet it is as the
author of 'Don Quixote' alone that he deserves to be generally known
or considered. Had his wit not come by chance on the idea of the
Ingenious Hidalgo, Cervantes would never have attained his uni-
versal renown, even if his other works and the interest of his career
should have sufficed to give him a place in the literary history of his
country. Here, then, where our task is to present in miniature only
what has the greatest and most universal value, we may treat our
author as playwrights are advised to treat their heroes, saying of
him only what is necessary to the understanding of the single action
with which we are concerned. This single action is the writing of
'Don Quixote'; and what we shall try to understand is what there
was in the life and environment of Cervantes that enabled him to
compose that great book, and that remained imbedded in its charac-
ters, its episodes, and its moral.
There was in vogue in the Spain of the sixteenth century a species
of romance called books of chivalry. They were developments of the
legends dealing with King Arthur and the Knights of the Table
Round, and their numerous descendants and emulators. These
stories had appealed in the first place to what we should still think
of as the spirit of chivalry: they were full of tourneys and single
combats, desperate adventures and romantic loves. The setting was
in the same vague and wonderful region as the Coast of Bohemia,
where to the known mountains, seas, and cities that have poetic
names, was added a prodigious number of caverns, castles, islands,
and forests of the romancer's invention. With time and popularity
this kind of story had naturally intensified its characteristics until it
had reached the greatest extravagance and absurdity, and combined
in a way the unreality of the fairy tale with the bombast of the
melodrama.
Cervantes had apparently read these books with avidity, and was
not without a great sympathy with the kind of imagination they em-
bodied. His own last and most carefully written book, the Travails
of Persiles and Sigismunda,' is in many respects an imitation of


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CERVANTES
3452
them; it abounds in savage islands, furious tyrants, prodigious feats
of arms, disguised maidens whose discretion is as marvelous as their
beauty, and happy deliverances from intricate and hopeless situa-
tions. His first book also, the 'Galatea,' was an embodiment of a
kind of pastoral idealism: sentimental verses being interspersed with
euphuistic prose, the whole describing the lovelorn shepherds and
heartless shepherdesses of Arcadia.
But while these books, which were the author's favorites among
his own works, expressed perhaps Cervantes's natural taste and
ambition, the events of his life and the real bent of his talent, which
in time he came himself to recognize, drove him to a very different
sort of composition. His family was ancient but impoverished, and
he was forced throughout his life to turn his hand to anything that
could promise him a livelihood. His existence was a continuous
series of experiments, vexations, and disappointments. He adopted
at first the profession of arms, and followed his colors as a private
soldier upon several foreign expeditions. He was long quartered in
Italy; he fought at Lepanto against the Turks, where among other
wounds he received one that maimed his left hand, to the greater
glory, as he tells us, of his right; he was captured by Barbary pirates
and remained for five years a slave in Algiers; he was ransomed, and
returned to Spain only to find official favors and recognitions denied
him; and finally, at the age of thirty-seven, he abandoned the army
for literature.
His first thought as a writer does not seem to have been to make
direct use of his rich experience and varied observation; he was
rather possessed by an obstinate longing for that poetic gift which,
as he confesses in one place, Heaven had denied him. He began
with the idyllic romance, the 'Galatea,' already mentioned, and at
various times during the rest of his life wrote poems, plays, and
stories of a romantic and sentimental type. In the course of these
labors, however, he struck one vein of much richer promise. It was
what the Spanish call the picaresque; that is, the description of the
life and character of rogues, pickpockets, vagabonds, and all those
wretches and sorry wits that might be found about the highways, in
the country inns, or in the slums of cities. Of this kind is much of
what is best in his collected stories, the Novelas Exemplares. ' The
talent and the experience which he betrays in these amusing narra-
tives were to be invaluable to him later as the author of 'Don
Quixote,' where they enabled him to supply a foil to the fine world
of his poor hero's imagination.
We have now mentioned what were perhaps the chief elements of
the preparation of Cervantes for his great task. They were a great
familiarity with the romances of chivalry, and a natural liking for


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CERVANTES
3453
1
them; a life of honorable but unrewarded endeavor both in war and
in the higher literature; and much experience of Vagabondia, with
the art of taking down and reproducing in amusing profusion the
typical scenes and languages of low life. Out of these elements a
single spark, which we may attribute to genius, to chance, or to
inspiration, was enough to produce a new and happy conception:
that of a parody on the romances of chivalry, in which the extrava-
gances of the fables of knighthood should be contrasted with the
sordid realities of life. This is done by the ingenious device of
representing a country gentleman whose naturally generous mind,
unhinged by much reading of the books of chivalry, should lead him
to undertake the office of knight-errant, and induce him to ride
about the country clad in ancient armor, to right wrongs, to succor
defenseless maidens, to kill giants, and to win empires at least as
vast as that of Alexander.
This is the subject of Don Quixote. ' But happy as the concep-
tion is, it could not have produced a book of enduring charm and
well-seasoned wisdom, had it not been filled in with a great number
of amusing and lifelike episodes, and verified by two admirable
figures, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, characters at once inti-
mately individual and truly universal.
Don Quixote at first appears to the reader, and probably appeared
to the author as well, as primarily a madman,- -a thin and gaunt
old village squire, whose brain has been turned by the nonsense he
has read and taken for gospel truth; and who is punished for his
ridiculous mania by an uninterrupted series of beatings, falls, indig-
nities, and insults. But the hero and the author together, with the
ingenuity proper to madness and the inevitableness proper to genius,
soon begin to disclose the fund of intelligence and ideal passion
which underlies this superficial insanity. We see that Don Quixote
is only mad north-north-west, when the wind blows from the
quarter of his chivalrous preoccupation. At other times he shows
himself a man of great goodness and fineness of wit; virtuous, cour-
ageous, courteous, and generous, and in fact the perfect ideal of a
gentleman.
When he takes, for instance, a handful of acorns from
the goat-herds' table and begins a grandiloquent discourse upon the
Golden Age, we feel how cultivated the man is, how easily the little
things of life suggest to him the great things, and with what delight
he dwells on what is beautiful and happy. The truth and pathos of
the character become all the more compelling when we consider
how naturally the hero's madness and calamities flow from this same
exquisite sense of what is good.
The contrast to this figure is furnished by that of Sancho Panza,
who embodies all that is matter-of-fact, gross, and plebeian. Yet he


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3454
CERVANTES
is willing to become Don Quixote's esquire, and by his credulity and
devotion shows what an ascendency a heroic and enthusiastic nature
can gain over the most sluggish of men. Sancho has none of the
instincts of his master. He never read the books of chivalry or
desired to right the wrongs of the world. He is naturally satisfied
with his crust and his onions, if they can be washed down with
enough bad wine. His good drudge of a wife never transformed
herself in his fancy into a peerless Dulcinea. Yet Sancho follows
his master into every danger, shares his discomfiture and the many
blows that rain down upon him, and hopes to the end for the gov-
ernorship of that Insula with which Don Quixote is some day to
reward his faithful esquire.
As the madness of Don Quixote is humanized by his natural in-
telligence and courage, so the grossness and credulity of Sancho are
relieved by his homely wit. He abounds in proverbs. He never
fails to see the reality of a situation, and to protest doggedly against
his master's visionary flights. He holds fast as long as he can to
the evidence of his senses, and to his little weaknesses of flesh and
spirit. But finally he surrenders to the authority of Don Quixote,
and of the historians of chivalry, although not without a certain
reluctance and some surviving doubts.
The character of Sancho is admirable for the veracity with which
its details are drawn. The traits of the boor, the glutton, and the
coward come most naturally to the surface upon occasion, yet Sancho
remains a patient, good-natured peasant, a devoted servant, and a
humble Christian. Under the cover of such lifelike incongruities,
and of a pervasive humor, the author has given us a satirical picture
of human nature not inferior, perhaps, to that furnished by Don
Quixote himself. For instance: Don Quixote, after mending his hel-
met, tries its strength with a blow that smashes it to pieces. He
mends it a second time, but now, without trial, deputes it to be
henceforth a strong and perfect helmet. Sancho, when he is sent to
bear a letter to Dulcinea, neglects to deliver it, and invents an ac-
count of his interview with the imaginary lady for the satisfaction of
his master. But before long, by dint of repeating the story, he
comes himself to believe his own lies. Thus self-deception in the
knight is the ridiculous effect of courage, and in the esquire the
not less ridiculous effect of sloth.
The adventures these two heroes encounter are naturally only
such as travelers along the Spanish roads would then have been
likely to come upon. The point of the story depends on the famili-
arity and commonness of the situations in which Don Quixote finds
himself, so that the absurdity of his pretensions may be overwhelm-
ingly shown. Critics are agreed in blaming the exceptions which


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CERVANTES
3455
Cervantes allowed himself to make to the realism of his scenes,
where he introduced romantic tales into the narrative of the first
part. The tales are in themselves unworthy of their setting, and
contrary to the spirit of the whole book. Cervantes doubtless yielded
here partly to his story-telling habits, partly to a fear of monotony
in the uninterrupted description of Don Quixote's adventures. He
avoided this mistake in the second part, and devised the visit to the
Duke's palace, and the intentional sport there made of the hero, to
give variety to the story.
More variety and more unity may still, perhaps, seem desirable
in the book. The episodes are strung together without much co-
herence, and without any attempt to develop either the plot or the
characters. Sancho, to be sure, at last tastes the governorship of
his Insula, and Don Quixote on his death-bed recovers his wits. But
this conclusion, appropriate and touching as it is, might have come
almost anywhere in the course of the story. The whole book has,
in fact, rather the quality of an improvisation. The episodes suggest
themselves to the author's fancy as he proceeds; a fact which gives
them the same unexpectedness and sometimes the same incomplete-
ness which the events of a journey naturally have. It is in the
genius of this kind of narrative to be a sort of imaginary diary, with-
out a general dramatic structure. The interest depends on the
characters and the incidents alone; on the fertility of the author's
invention, on the ingenuity of the turns he gives to the story, and
on the incidental scenes and figures he describes.
When we have once accepted this manner of writing fiction
which might be called that of the novelist before the days of the novel
we can only admire the execution of 'Don Quixote' as masterly
in its kind. We find here an abundance of fancy that is never at a
loss for some probable and interesting incident; we find a graphic
power that makes living and unforgettable many a minor character,
even if slightly sketched; we find the charm of the country rendered
by little touches without any formal descriptions; and we find a
humorous and minute reproduction of the manners of the time. All
this is rendered in a flowing and easy style, abounding in both char-
acterization and parody of diverse types of speech and composition;
and the whole is still but the background for the figures of Don
Quixote and Sancho, and for their pleasant discourse, the quality and
savor of which is maintained to the end. These excellences unite to
make the book one of the most permanently delightful in the world,
as well as one of the most diverting. Seldom has laughter been so
well justified as that which the reading of Don Quixote' continu-
ally provokes; seldom has it found its causes in such genuine fancy,
such profound and real contrast, and such victorious good-humor.


## p. 3456 (#434) ###########################################

3456
CERVANTES
We sometimes wish, perhaps, that our heroes were spared some
of their bruises, and that we were not asked to delight so much in
promiscuous beatings and floggings. But we must remember that
these three hundred years have made the European race much more
sensitive to physical suffering. Our ancestors took that doubtful
pleasure in the idea of corporal writhings which we still take in
the description of the tortures of the spirit. The idea of both evils
is naturally distasteful to a refined mind; but we admit more will-
ingly the kind which habit has accustomed us to regard as inevi-
table, and which personal experience very probably has made an old
friend.
'Don Quixote' has accordingly enjoyed a universal popularity, and
has had the singular privilege of accomplishing the object for which
it was written, which was to recall fiction from the extravagances of
the books of chivalry to the study of real life. This is the simple
object which Cervantes had and avowed.
He was a literary man
with literary interests, and the idea which came to him was to ridi-
cule the absurdities of the prevalent literary mode. The rich vein
which he struck in the conception of Don Quixote's madness and
topsy-turvy adventures encouraged him to go on. The subject and
the characters deepened under his hands, until from a parody of a
certain kind of romances the story threatened to become a satire on
human idealism. At the same time Cervantes grew fond of his hero,
and made him, as we must feel, in some sort a representative of his
own chivalrous enthusiasms and constant disappointments.
Just as
We need not, however, see in this transformation any deep-laid
malice or remote significance. As the tale opened out before the
author's fancy and enlisted his closer and more loving attention, he
naturally enriched it with all the wealth of his experience.
he diversified it with pictures of common life and manners,
so he
weighted it with the burden of human tragedy. He left upon it an
impress of his own nobility and misfortunes side by side with a record
of his time and country. But in this there was nothing intentional.
He only spoke out of the fullness of his heart. The highest motives
and characters had been revealed to him by his own impulses, and
the lowest by his daily experience.
There is nothing in the book that suggests a premeditated satire
upon faith and enthusiasm in general. The author's evident purpose
is to amuse, not to upbraid or to discourage. There is no bitterness
in his pathos or despair in his disenchantment; partly because he
retains a healthy fondness for this naughty world, and partly because
his heart is profoundly and entirely Christian. He would have re-
jected with indignation an interpretation of his work that would
see in it an attack on religion or even on chivalry.
His birth and


## p. 3457 (#435) ###########################################

CERVANTES
3457
nurture had made him religious and chivalrous from the beginning,
and he remained so by conviction to the end. He was still full of
plans and hopes when death overtook him, but he greeted it with
perfect simplicity, without lamentations over the past or anxiety for
the future.
If we could have asked Cervantes what the moral of Don Quixote
was to his own mind, he would have told us perhaps that it was this:
that the force of idealism is wasted when it does not recognize the
reality of things. Neglect of the facts of daily life made the absurd-
ity of the romances of chivalry and of the enterprise of Don Quixote.
What is needed is not, of course, that idealism should be surren-
dered, either in literature or in life; but that in both it should be
made efficacious by a better adjustment to the reality it would
transform.
Something of this kind would have been, we may believe, Cer-
vantes's own reading of his parable. But when parables are such
direct and full transcripts of life as is the story of Don Quixote, they
offer almost as much occasion for diversity of interpretation as does
the personal experience of men in the world. That the moral of
Don Quixote should be doubtful and that each man should be
tempted to see in it the expression of his own convictions, is after
all the greatest possible encomium of the book. For we may infer
that the truth has been rendered in it, and that men may return to
it always, as to Nature herself, to renew their theories or to forget
them, and to refresh their fancy with the spectacle of a living world.
S
Santayan
TREATING OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF DON
QUIXOTE
IN
NA village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire.
to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gen-
tlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, and an old buckler,
a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather
more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Satur-
days, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays,
made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it
went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to
match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure
in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past
VI-217


## p. 3458 (#436) ###########################################

3458
CERVANTES
forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-
place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the ` bill.
hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty;
he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early
riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was
Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion
among the authors who write on the subject), although from
reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quixana.
This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be
enough not to stray a hair's-breadth from the truth in the telling
of it.
You must know then that the above-named gentleman, when.
ever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round)
gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardor and
avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field.
sports, and even the management of his property; and to such a
pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an
acre of tillage-land to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought
home as many of them as he could get. But of all there were
none he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva's
composition, for their lucidity of style and complicated conceits
were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in his reading he
came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found passages
like:- «<
The reason of the unreason with which my reason is
afflicted, so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at
your beauty;" or again:-"The high heavens, that of your
divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving
of the desert your greatness deserves. " Over conceits of this
sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake striv
ing to understand them and worm the meaning out of them; what
Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted, had he
come to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all
easy about the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, be-
cause it seemed to him that, great as were the surgeons who had
cured him, he must have had his face and body covered all over
with seams and scars. He commended however the author's
way of ending his book with the promise of that interminable
adventure; and many a time was he tempted to take up his pen
and finish it properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he
would have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too,
had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.
-


## p. 3459 (#437) ###########################################

CERVANTES
3459
Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village
(a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had
been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul.
Master Nicholas the village barber, however, used to say that
neither of them came up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if
there was any could compare with him it was Don Galaor, the
brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was
equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachry-
mose like his brother, while in the matter of valor he was not a
whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books
that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days.
from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep
and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits.
His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books-
enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings,
loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so
possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy
he read of was true, that to him no history in the world had
more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very
good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the
Knight of the Burning Sword, who with one back-stroke cut in
half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of
Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland
in spite of enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of
Hercules when he strangled Antæus the son of Terra in his
arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because
although of the giant breed, which is always arrogant and ill-
conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all
he admired Reinaldos of Montalban; especially when he saw him
sallying forth from his castle and robbing every one he met,
and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet
which, as his history says, was entirely of gold. And to have a
bout of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given
his housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain.
In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest.
notion that ever madman in this world hit upon: and that was
that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the sup-
port of his own honor as for the service of his country, that he
should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over
in full armor and on horseback in quest of adventures, and
putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the


## p. 3460 (#438) ###########################################

3460
CERVANTES
usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong,
and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the
issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the
poor man
saw himself crowned, by the might of his arm,
Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense
enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself
forthwith to put his scheme into execution.
The first thing he did was to clean up some armor that had
belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying
forgotten in a corner, eaten with rust and covered with mildew.
He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived
one great defect in it; that it had no closed helmet, nothing but
a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity sup-
plied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard which,
fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that
in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut he drew
his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which
undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The
ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him
somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work
again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied
with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experi-
ments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the
most perfect construction.
He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more
quartos than a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gon-
ela, that "tantum pellis et ossa fuit," surpassed in his eyes the
Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days
were spent in thinking what name to give him; because (as he
said to himself) it was not right that a horse belonging to a
knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own, should
be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so
as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-
errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that,
his master taking a new character, he should take a new name,
and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one,
befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow.
And so after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to,
unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory
and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rosinante,- to his
thinking lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a


## p. 3461 (#439) ###########################################

CERVANTES
3461
hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost
of all the hacks in the world.
Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was
anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pon-
dering over this point, till at last he made up his mind to call
himself Don Quixote, whence, as has already been said, the
authors of this veracious history have inferred that his name must
have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as others
would have it. Recollecting however that the valiant Amadis
was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more,
but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it
famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul: he, like a good
knight, resolved to add on the name of his and to style himself
Don Quixote of La Mancha; whereby he considered he described
accurately his origin and country, and did honor to it in taking
his surname from it.
So then, his armor being furbished, his morion turned into a
helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came
to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look
out for a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without
love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a
soul. As he said to himself:- "If for my sins or by my good
fortune I come across some giant hereabouts, a common occur-
rence with knights-errant,- and overthrow him in one onslaught,
or cleave him asunder to the waist, or in short, vanquish and
subdue him, will it not be well to have some one I may send
him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees
before my sweet lady and in a humble, submissive voice say:-
'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania,
vanquished in single combat by the never-sufficiently-extolled
knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to
present myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of
me at your pleasure"? Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed
the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of
some one to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a
village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl with whom he
had been at one time in love, though so far as is known, she
never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was
Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title
of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name
which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should


## p. 3462 (#440) ###########################################

3462
CERVANTES
suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided
upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso-she being of El Toboso-
a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all
those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things
belonging to him.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WHEN HE LEFT
THE INN
DA
AY was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy,
so gay, so exhilarated at finding himself dubbed a knight,
that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths. However,
recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to
carry with him, especially that referring to money and shirts, he
determined to go home and provide himself with all, and also
with a squire; for he reckoned upon securing a farm-laborer, a
neighbor of his, a poor man with a family, but very well quali
fied for the office of squire to a knight. With this object he
turned his horse's head towards his village, and Rosinante, thus
reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he
hardly seemed to tread the earth.
He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there
seemed to come feeble cries as of some one in distress; and the
instant he heard them he exclaimed:-"Thanks be to heaven for
the favor it accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity
of fulfilling the obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the
fruit of my ambition. These cries no doubt come from some
man or woman in want of help, and needing my aid and pro-
tection;" and wheeling, he turned Rosinante in the direction
whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few
paces into the wood when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and
tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth
of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor
were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him
with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings and
commands; repeating, "Your mouth shut and your eyes open! "
while the youth made answer, "I won't do it again, master
mine; by God's passion, I won't do it again, and I'll take more
care of the flock another time. "
Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry
voice, "Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who


## p. 3463 (#441) ###########################################

CERVANTES
3463
cannot defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance"
(for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which the mare
was tied), “and I will make you know that you are behaving as
a coward. " The farmer, seeing before him this figure in full
armor, brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself up for
dead and made answer meekly:-"Sir Knight, this youth that
I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch a flock
of sheep that I have hard by; and he is so careless that I lose
one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and
knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying
him the wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he
lies. "
"Lies before me, base clown! " said Don Quixote. "By the
sun that shines on us, I have a mind to run you through with
this lance. Pay him at once, without another word; if not, by
the God that rules us, I will make an end of you, and annihilate
you on the spot; release him instantly. "
The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his
servant, of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed
him.
He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don
Quixote added it up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and
told the farmer to pay it down immediately if he did not want
to die for it.
The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the
oath he had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so
much; for there were to be taken into account and deducted
three pairs of shoes he had given him, and a real for two blood-
lettings when he was sick.
"All that is very well," said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes.
and the blood-lettings stand as a set-off against the blows you
have given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather
of the shoes you paid for, you have damaged that of his body,
and if the barber took blood from him when he was sick, you
have drawn it when he was sound; so on that score he owes
you nothing. "
"The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here;
let Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by
real. "
"I go with him! " said the youth. "Nay, God forbid no,
señor, not for the world; for once alone with me, he would flay
me like a Saint Bartholomew. "


## p. 3464 (#442) ###########################################

3464
CERVANTES
"He will do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; “I
have only to command and he will obey me, and he has sworn
to me by the order of knighthood which he has received.
leave him free, and I guarantee the payment. "
"Consider what you are saying, señor," said the youth; "this
master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order
of knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar. "
"That matters little," replied Don Quixote; "there may be
Haldudos knights; moreover, every one is the son of his works. "
"That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine- - of
what work is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my
sweat and labor? »
―
"I do not refuse, brother Andres," said the farmer; "be good
enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders
of knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have
agreed, real by real, and perfumed. ”
"For the perfumery I excuse you," said Don Quixote; "give
it to him in reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do
as you have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come
back and hunt you out and punish you; and I shall find you
though you should lie closer than a lizard. And if you desire to
know who it is lays this command upon you, that you may be
more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don
Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and
so God be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised
and sworn under those penalties that have been already declared
to you.
>>
So saying, he gave Rosinante the spur and was soon out of
reach. The farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he
saw that he had cleared the wood and was no longer in sight,
he turned to his boy Andres and said, "Come here, my son; I
want to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of wrongs has
commanded me. "
"My oath on it," said Andres, "your Worship will be well ad-
vised to obey the command of that good knight-may he live a
thousand years! - for as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque,
if you do not pay me, he will come back and do as he said. ”
"My oath on it too," said the farmer; "but as I have a
strong affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to
add to the payment;" and seizing him by the arm, he tied him
up to the oak again, where he gave him such a flogging that he
left him for dead.


## p. 3465 (#443) ###########################################

CERVANTES
3465
"Now, Master Andres," said the farmer, "call on the undoer
of wrongs; you will find he won't undo that, though I am not
sure that I have quite done with you, for I have a good mind
to flay you alive as you feared. " But at last he untied him,
and gave him leave to go look for his judge in order to put the
sentence pronounced into execution.
Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he
would go to look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and
tell him exactly what had happened, and that all would have to
be repaid him sevenfold; but for all that he went off weeping,
while his master stood laughing.
Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong; and
thoroughly satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered
he had made a very happy and noble beginning with his knight-
hood, he took the road towards his village in perfect self-
content, saying in a low voice: "Well mayest thou this day call
thyself fortunate above all on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso,
fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to thy lot to hold subject
and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a knight so
renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who
as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of knight-
hood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance
that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated; who hath
to-day plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless op-
pressor so wantonly lashing that tender child. "
He now came to a road branching in four directions, and
immediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where knights-
errant used to stop to consider which road they should take. In
imitation of them he halted for a while, and after having deeply
considered it, he gave Rosinante his head, submitting his own.
will to that of his hack, who followed out his first intention,
which was to make straight for his own stable. After he had
gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a large party of
people, who as afterwards appeared were some Toledo traders,
on their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them
coming along under their sun-shades, with four servants mounted,
and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote descried
them when the fancy possessed him that this must be some new
adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he could those
passages he had read of in his books, here seemed to come one
made on purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a lofty


## p. 3466 (#444) ###########################################

3466
CERVANTES
bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his stirrups,
got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his breast, and
planting himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting the
approach of these knights-errant, for such he now considered and
held them to be; and when they had come near enough to see
and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture:- "All the
world stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world
there is no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso. "
The traders halted at the sound of this language and the
sight of the strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure
and language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they
wished however to learn quietly what was the object of this con-
fession that was demanded of them, and one of them, who was
rather fond of a joke and was very sharp-witted, said to him:-
"Sir Knight, we do not know who this good lady is that you
speak of; show her to us, for if she be of such beauty as you
suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we will
confess the truth that is on your part required of us. "
-
"If I were to show her to you," replied Don Quixote, "what
merit would you have in confessing a truth so manifest ? The
essential point is that without seeing her you must believe, con-
fess, affirm, swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with me in
battle, ill-conditioned arrogant rabble that ye are: and come ye
on, one by one as the order of knighthood requires, or all
together as is the custom and vile usage of your breed; here do
I bide and await you, relying on the justice of the cause I main-
tain. "
"Sir Knight,” replied the trader, "I entreat your Worship in
the name of this present company of princes, that to save us
from charging our consciences with the confession of a thing we
have never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to the
prejudice of the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and Estre-
madura, your worship will be pleased to show us some portrait
of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain of wheat; for by
the thread one gets at the ball, and in this way we shall be sat-
isfied and easy, and you will be content and pleased: nay, I be-
lieve we
are already so far agreed with you that even though
her portrait should show her blind of one eye, and distilling
vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would nevertheless,
to gratify your Worship, say all in her favor that you desire. "


## p. 3467 (#445) ###########################################

CERVANTES
3467
"She distills nothing of the kind, vile rabble," said Don
Quixote, burning with rage; "nothing of the kind, I say; only
ambergris and civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or hump-
backed, but straighter than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must
pay for the blasphemy ye have uttered against beauty like that
of my lady. "
And so saying he charged with leveled lance against the one
who had spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had
not contrived that Rosinante should stumble midway and come
down, it would have gone hard with the rash trader. Down
went Rosinante, and over went his master, rolling along the
ground for some distance; and when he tried to rise he was
unable, so incumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, hel-
met, and the weight of his old armor; and all the while he
was struggling to get up, he kept saying, "Fly not, cowards
and caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse's, am I
stretched here. "
One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had
much good-nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blus
tering in this style, was unable to refrain from giving him an
answer on his ribs; and coming up to him he seized his lance,
and having broken it in pieces, with one of them he began so
to belabor our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and in spite
of his armor, he milled him like a measure of wheat.
His mas-
ters called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him alone,
but the muleteer's blood was up, and he did not care to drop the
game until he had vented the rest of his wrath; and gathering
up the remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a dis-
charge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of
sticks that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and
earth, and the brigands—for such they seemed to him. At last
the muleteer was tired, and the traders continued their journey,
taking with them matter for talk about the poor fellow who had
been cudgeled. He, when he found himself alone, made another
effort to rise; but if he was unable when whole and sound, how
was he to rise after having been thrashed and well-nigh knocked
to pieces! And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it seemed
to him that this was a regular knight-errant's mishap, and
entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse. However, bat-
tered in body as he was, to rise was beyond his power.


## p. 3468 (#446) ###########################################

3468
CERVANTES
DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA SALLY FORTH: AND THE
ADVENTURE WITH THE WINDMILLS
HR
E REMAINED at home fifteen days very quietly, without show-
ing any signs of a desire to take up with his former delu-
sions; and during this time he held lively discussions with
his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the point he
maintained, that knights-errant were what the world stood most
in need of, and that in him was to be accomplished the revival
of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes contradicted him,
sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not observed this pre-
caution he would have been unable to bring him to reason.
Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a a farm-laborer, a
neighbor of his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be given
to him who is poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a
word, he so talked him over, and with such persuasions and
promises, that the poor clown made up his mind to sally forth
with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, among other
things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly,
because at any moment an adventure might occur, that might
win an island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor
of it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the
laborer was called) left wife and children, and engaged himself
as esquire to his neighbor. Don Quixote next set about getting
some money; and selling one thing and pawning another, and
making a bad bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum.
He provided himself with a buckler, which he begged as a loan
from a friend, and restoring his battered helmet as best he
could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he
meant to set out, that he might provide himself with what
he thought most needful.