not at all to the purpose, while there was a sufficient number of my own to have exercised his pen. But, without doubt, we may apply the proverb, With hay or with straw,* &c., for verily, had he altogether confined himself to my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my laudable designs, my adventures, he might yet have swelled his book to as great a bulk, at least, as all Tostatus's † works. I have also reason to believe, Mr. Bachelor, that to compile a history, or write any book whatsoever, is a more difficult task than men imagine. There is need of a vast judgment, and a ripe understanding. It belongs to none but great geniuses to express themselves with grace and elegance, and to draw the manners and actions of others to the life. The most artful part in a play is the fool's, and therefore a fool must not attempt to write it. On the other side, history is in a manner a sacred thing, so far as it contains truth; for where truth is, the supreme father of it may also be said to be, at least, in as much as concerns truth. However, there are men that will make you books, and turn them loose into the world, with as much despatch as they would do a dish of fritters."

"There is no book so bad," said the bachelor, "but something good may be found in it." "That is true," said Don Quixote; "yet it is a quite common thing for men, who have gained a very great reputation by their writings, before they printed

* The proverb entire is, De paja o de heno el jergon ileno, i. e. 'The bed or tick full of hay or straw,' so it be filled, no matter with what.

† A famous Spaniard, who wrote many volumes of divinity.

them, to lose it afterwards quite, or at least the greatest part." "The reason is plain," said Carrasco "their faults are more easily discovered after their books are printed, as being then more read, and more narrowly examined, especially if the author had been much cried up before, for then the severity of the scrutiny is so much the greater. All those that have raised themselves a name by their ingenuity, great poets and celebrated historians, are most commonly, if notalways, envied by a sort of men, who delight in censuring the writings of others though they never publish any of their own." "That is no wonder," said Don Quixote, "for there are many divines, that could make but very dull preachers, and yet are very quick at finding faults, and superfluities in other men's sermons." "All this is truth," replied Carrasco; "and therefore I could wish these censurers would be more merciful and less scrupulous, and not dwell ungenerously upon small spots, that are in a manner but so many atoms on the face of the clear sun which they murmur at. And if aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus, let them consider how many nights he kept himself awake to bring his noble works to light, as little darkened with defects as might be. Nay many times it may happen that what is censured for a fault, or rather an ornament, like moles that sometimes add to the beauty of the face. And when all is said, he that publishes a book runs a very great hazard, since nothing can be more impossible than to compose one that may secure the approbation of every reader." "Sure," said Don Quixote, "that which treats of me can have pleased

but few."

"Quite contrary," said Carrasco; "for as Stultorum infinitus est numerus, so an infinite number has admired your history. Only some there are who have taxed the author with want of memory or sincerity; because he forgot to give an account who it was that stole Sancho's Dapple; for that particular is not mentioned there; only we find by the story that it was stolen; and yet, by and by, we find him riding the same ass again, without any previous light given us into the matter. Then they say that the author forgot to tell the reader, what Sancho did with those hundred pieces of gold he found in the portmanteau in the Sierra Morena ; for there is not a word said of them more; and many people have a great mind to know what he did with them, and how he spent them; which is one of the most material points in which the work is defective."

"Master Samson," quoth Sancho, "I am not now in a condition to call up the accounts, for I am taken ill of a sudden with such a wambling in the stomach, and find myself so mawkish, that if I do not see and fetch it up with a sup or two of good old bub, I shall waste like the snuff of a farthing candle.* I have that cordial at home, and my chuck stays for me. When I have had my dinner, I am for you, and will satisfy you, or any man that wears a head, about any thing in the world, either as to the loss of the ass, or the laying out of

* I shall be stuck upon St. Lucia's thorn, supposed to be a cant phrase for the rack; for which the royal Spanish dictionary produces no other voucher but this passage.

those same pieces of gold." This said, without a word more, or waiting for a reply, away he went. Don Quixote desired, and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance with him. The bachelor accepted his invitation, and staid. A couple of pigeons were got ready to mend their commons. All dinner time they discoursed about knight-errantry, Carrasco humoring him all the while. After they had slept out the heat of the day, Sancho came back, and they renewed their former discourse.

CHAPTER IV.

SANCHO PANZA SATISFIES THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO IN HIS DOUBTS AND QUERIES; WITH OTHER PASSAGES FIT TO BE KNOWN AND RELATED.

SANCHO returned to Don Quixote's house, and beginning again where he left off; " Now," quoth he, "as to what Master Samson wanted to know; that is, when, where, and by whom my ass was stolen? I answer, that the very night that we marched off to the Sierra Morena, to avoid the hue-andcry of the holy brotherhood, after the rueful adventure of galley-slaves, and that of the dead body that was carrying to Segovia, my master and I slunk into a wood; where he, leaning on his lance, and I without alighting from Dapple, both sadly bruised and tired with our late skirmishes, fell fast asleep, and slept as soundly as if we had four feather-beds under us; but I especially was as serious at it as any dormouse; so that the thief, whoever he was,

had leisure enough to clap four stakes under the four corners of the pack-saddle, and then leading away the ass from between my legs, without being perceived by me in the least, there he fairly left me mounted." "This is no new thing," said Don Quixote, "nor is it difficult to be done. With the same stratagem Sacrepante had his steed stolen from under him by that notorious thief Brunelo, at the siege of Albraca."

"It was broad day," said Sancho, going on, "when I, half awake and half asleep, began to stretch myself in my pack saddle; but, with my stirring, down came the stakes, and down came I souse, with a confounded squelch, on the ground. Presently I looked for my ass, but no ass was to be found. O how thick the tears trickled from my eyes, and what a piteous moan I made! If he that made our history has forgot to set it down word for word, I would not give a rush for his book, I will tell him that. Some time after, I cannot just tell you how long it was, as we were going with my lady the Princess Micomicona, I knew my ass again, and he that rid him, though he went like a gypsy; and who should it be, do you think, but Gines de Passamonte, that son of mischief, that crack rope, whom my master and I saved from the galleys." "The mistake does not lie there," said Carrasco; "but that only the author sets you upon the same ass that was lost, before he gives an account of his being found." "As to that," replied Sancho, I do not know very well what to say. If the man made a blunder, who can help it? But mayhap, it was a fault of the printer." "I make no question of