**Wherein is related what befell Don Quixote on his way to see his lad_ulcinea del Toboso**
"Blessed be Allah the all-powerful!" says Hamete Benengeli on beginning thi_ighth chapter; "blessed be Allah!" he repeats three times; and he says h_tters these thanksgivings at seeing that he has now got Don Quixote an_ancho fairly afield, and that the readers of his delightful history ma_eckon that the achievements and humours of Don Quixote and his squire are no_bout to begin; and he urges them to forget the former chivalries of th_ngenious gentleman and to fix their eyes on those that are to come, which no_egin on the road to El Toboso, as the others began on the plains of Montiel;
nor is it much that he asks in consideration of all he promises, and so h_oes on to say:
Don Quixote and Sancho were left alone, and the moment Samson took hi_eparture, Rocinante began to neigh, and Dapple to sigh, which, by both knigh_nd squire, was accepted as a good sign and a very happy omen; though, if th_ruth is to be told, the sighs and brays of Dapple were louder than th_eighings of the hack, from which Sancho inferred that his good fortune was t_xceed and overtop that of his master, building, perhaps, upon some judicia_strology that he may have known, though the history says nothing about it;
all that can be said is, that when he stumbled or fell, he was heard to say h_ished he had not come out, for by stumbling or falling there was nothing t_e got but a damaged shoe or a broken rib; and, fool as he was, he was no_uch astray in this.
Said Don Quixote, "Sancho, my friend, night is drawing on upon us as we go,
and more darkly than will allow us to reach El Toboso by daylight; for there _m resolved to go before I engage in another adventure, and there I shal_btain the blessing and generous permission of the peerless Dulcinea, wit_hich permission I expect and feel assured that I shall conclude and bring t_ happy termination every perilous adventure; for nothing in life make_nights-errant more valorous than finding themselves favoured by thei_adies."
"So I believe," replied Sancho; "but I think it will be difficult for you_orship to speak with her or see her, at any rate where you will be able t_eceive her blessing; unless, indeed, she throws it over the wall of the yar_here I saw her the time before, when I took her the letter that told of th_ollies and mad things your worship was doing in the heart of Sierra Morena."
"Didst thou take that for a yard wall, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "where or a_hich thou sawest that never sufficiently extolled grace and beauty? It mus_ave been the gallery, corridor, or portico of some rich and royal palace."
"It might have been all that," returned Sancho, "but to me it looked like _all, unless I am short of memory."
"At all events, let us go there, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for, so that _ee her, it is the same to me whether it be over a wall, or at a window, o_hrough the chink of a door, or the grate of a garden; for any beam of the su_f her beauty that reaches my eyes will give light to my reason and strengt_o my heart, so that I shall be unmatched and unequalled in wisdom an_alour."
"Well, to tell the truth, senor," said Sancho, "when I saw that sun of th_ady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not bright enough to throw out beams at all;
it must have been, that as her grace was sifting that wheat I told you of, th_hick dust she raised came before her face like a cloud and dimmed it."
"What! dost thou still persist, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "in saying,
thinking, believing, and maintaining that my lady Dulcinea was sifting wheat,
that being an occupation and task entirely at variance with what is and shoul_e the employment of persons of distinction, who are constituted and reserve_or other avocations and pursuits that show their rank a bowshot off? Tho_ast forgotten, O Sancho, those lines of our poet wherein he paints for u_ow, in their crystal abodes, those four nymphs employed themselves who ros_rom their loved Tagus and seated themselves in a verdant meadow to embroide_hose tissues which the ingenious poet there describes to us, how they wer_orked and woven with gold and silk and pearls; and something of this sor_ust have been the employment of my lady when thou sawest her, only that th_pite which some wicked enchanter seems to have against everything of min_hanges all those things that give me pleasure, and turns them into shape_nlike their own; and so I fear that in that history of my achievements whic_hey say is now in print, if haply its author was some sage who is an enemy o_ine, he will have put one thing for another, mingling a thousand lies wit_ne truth, and amusing himself by relating transactions which have nothing t_o with the sequence of a true history. O envy, root of all countless evils,
and cankerworm of the virtues! All the vices, Sancho, bring some kind o_leasure with them; but envy brings nothing but irritation, bitterness, an_age."
"So I say too," replied Sancho; "and I suspect in that legend or history of u_hat the bachelor Samson Carrasco told us he saw, my honour goes dragged i_he dirt, knocked about, up and down, sweeping the streets, as they say. An_et, on the faith of an honest man, I never spoke ill of any enchanter, and _m not so well off that I am to be envied; to be sure, I am rather sly, and _ave a certain spice of the rogue in me; but all is covered by the great cloa_f my simplicity, always natural and never acted; and if I had no other meri_ave that I believe, as I always do, firmly and truly in God, and all the hol_oman Catholic Church holds and believes, and that I am a mortal enemy of th_ews, the historians ought to have mercy on me and treat me well in thei_ritings. But let them say what they like; naked was I born, naked I fin_yself, I neither lose nor gain; nay, while I see myself put into a book an_assed on from hand to hand over the world, I don't care a fig, let them sa_hat they like of me."
"That, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "reminds me of what happened to a famou_oet of our own day, who, having written a bitter satire against all th_ourtesan ladies, did not insert or name in it a certain lady of whom it wa_uestionable whether she was one or not. She, seeing she was not in the lis_f the poet, asked him what he had seen in her that he did not include her i_he number of the others, telling him he must add to his satire and put her i_he new part, or else look out for the consequences. The poet did as she bad_im, and left her without a shred of reputation, and she was satisfied b_etting fame though it was infamy. In keeping with this is what they relate o_hat shepherd who set fire to the famous temple of Diana, by repute one of th_even wonders of the world, and burned it with the sole object of making hi_ame live in after ages; and, though it was forbidden to name him, or mentio_is name by word of mouth or in writing, lest the object of his ambitio_hould be attained, nevertheless it became known that he was calle_rostratus. And something of the same sort is what happened in the case of th_reat emperor Charles V and a gentleman in Rome. The emperor was anxious t_ee that famous temple of the Rotunda, called in ancient times the temple 'o_ll the gods,' but now-a-days, by a better nomenclature, 'of all the saints,'
which is the best preserved building of all those of pagan construction i_ome, and the one which best sustains the reputation of mighty works an_agnificence of its founders. It is in the form of a half orange, of enormou_imensions, and well lighted, though no light penetrates it save that which i_dmitted by a window, or rather round skylight, at the top; and it was fro_his that the emperor examined the building. A Roman gentleman stood by hi_ide and explained to him the skilful construction and ingenuity of the vas_abric and its wonderful architecture, and when they had left the skylight h_aid to the emperor, 'A thousand times, your Sacred Majesty, the impulse cam_pon me to seize your Majesty in my arms and fling myself down from yonde_kylight, so as to leave behind me in the world a name that would last fo_ver.' 'I am thankful to you for not carrying such an evil thought int_ffect,' said the emperor, 'and I shall give you no opportunity in future o_gain putting your loyalty to the test; and I therefore forbid you ever t_peak to me or to be where I am; and he followed up these words by bestowing _iberal bounty upon him. My meaning is, Sancho, that the desire of acquirin_ame is a very powerful motive. What, thinkest thou, was it that flun_oratius in full armour down from the bridge into the depths of the Tiber?
What burned the hand and arm of Mutius? What impelled Curtius to plunge int_he deep burning gulf that opened in the midst of Rome? What, in opposition t_ll the omens that declared against him, made Julius Caesar cross the Rubicon?
And to come to more modern examples, what scuttled the ships, and lef_tranded and cut off the gallant Spaniards under the command of the mos_ourteous Cortes in the New World? All these and a variety of other grea_xploits are, were and will be, the work of fame that mortals desire as _eward and a portion of the immortality their famous deeds deserve; though w_atholic Christians and knights-errant look more to that future glory that i_verlasting in the ethereal regions of heaven than to the vanity of the fam_hat is to be acquired in this present transitory life; a fame that, howeve_ong it may last, must after all end with the world itself, which has its ow_ppointed end. So that, O Sancho, in what we do we must not overpass th_ounds which the Christian religion we profess has assigned to us. We have t_lay pride in giants, envy by generosity and nobleness of heart, anger b_almness of demeanour and equanimity, gluttony and sloth by the spareness o_ur diet and the length of our vigils, lust and lewdness by the loyalty w_reserve to those whom we have made the mistresses of our thoughts, indolenc_y traversing the world in all directions seeking opportunities of makin_urselves, besides Christians, famous knights. Such, Sancho, are the means b_hich we reach those extremes of praise that fair fame carries with it."
"All that your worship has said so far," said Sancho, "I have understood quit_ell; but still I would be glad if your worship would dissolve a doubt for me,
which has just this minute come into my mind."
"Solve, thou meanest, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "say on, in God's name, and _ill answer as well as I can."
"Tell me, senor," Sancho went on to say, "those Julys or Augusts, and al_hose venturous knights that you say are now dead—where are they now?"
"The heathens," replied Don Quixote, "are, no doubt, in hell; the Christians,
if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory or in heaven."
"Very good," said Sancho; "but now I want to know—the tombs where the bodie_f those great lords are, have they silver lamps before them, or are the wall_f their chapels ornamented with crutches, winding-sheets, tresses of hair,
legs and eyes in wax? Or what are they ornamented with?"
To which Don Quixote made answer: "The tombs of the heathens were generall_umptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Caesar's body were placed on the top o_ stone pyramid of vast size, which they now call in Rome Saint Peter'_eedle. The emperor Hadrian had for a tomb a castle as large as a good-size_illage, which they called the Moles Adriani, and is now the castle of St.
Angelo in Rome. The queen Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a tom_hich was reckoned one of the seven wonders of the world; but none of thes_ombs, or of the many others of the heathens, were ornamented with winding-
sheets or any of those other offerings and tokens that show that they who ar_uried there are saints."
"That's the point I'm coming to," said Sancho; "and now tell me, which is th_reater work, to bring a dead man to life or to kill a giant?"
"The answer is easy," replied Don Quixote; "it is a greater work to bring t_ife a dead man."
"Now I have got you," said Sancho; "in that case the fame of them who brin_he dead to life, who give sight to the blind, cure cripples, restore healt_o the sick, and before whose tombs there are lamps burning, and whose chapel_re filled with devout folk on their knees adoring their relics be a bette_ame in this life and in the other than that which all the heathen emperor_nd knights-errant that have ever been in the world have left or may leav_ehind them?"
"That I grant, too," said Don Quixote.
"Then this fame, these favours, these privileges, or whatever you call it,"
said Sancho, "belong to the bodies and relics of the saints who, with th_pprobation and permission of our holy mother Church, have lamps, tapers,
winding-sheets, crutches, pictures, eyes and legs, by means of which the_ncrease devotion and add to their own Christian reputation. Kings carry th_odies or relics of saints on their shoulders, and kiss bits of their bones,
and enrich and adorn their oratories and favourite altars with them."
"What wouldst thou have me infer from all thou hast said, Sancho?" asked Do_uixote.
"My meaning is," said Sancho, "let us set about becoming saints, and we shal_btain more quickly the fair fame we are striving after; for you know, senor,
yesterday or the day before yesterday (for it is so lately one may say so)
they canonised and beatified two little barefoot friars, and it is no_eckoned the greatest good luck to kiss or touch the iron chains with whic_hey girt and tortured their bodies, and they are held in greater veneration,
so it is said, than the sword of Roland in the armoury of our lord the King,
whom God preserve. So that, senor, it is better to be an humble little fria_f no matter what order, than a valiant knight-errant; with God a couple o_ozen of penance lashings are of more avail than two thousand lance-thrusts,
be they given to giants, or monsters, or dragons."
"All that is true," returned Don Quixote, "but we cannot all be friars, an_any are the ways by which God takes his own to heaven; chivalry is _eligion, there are sainted knights in glory."
"Yes," said Sancho, "but I have heard say that there are more friars in heave_han knights-errant."
"That," said Don Quixote, "is because those in religious orders are mor_umerous than knights."
"The errants are many," said Sancho.
"Many," replied Don Quixote, "but few they who deserve the name of knights."
With these, and other discussions of the same sort, they passed that night an_he following day, without anything worth mention happening to them, wherea_on Quixote was not a little dejected; but at length the next day, a_aybreak, they descried the great city of El Toboso, at the sight of which Do_uixote's spirits rose and Sancho's fell, for he did not know Dulcinea'_ouse, nor in all his life had he ever seen her, any more than his master; s_hat they were both uneasy, the one to see her, the other at not having see_er, and Sancho was at a loss to know what he was to do when his master sen_im to El Toboso. In the end, Don Quixote made up his mind to enter the cit_t nightfall, and they waited until the time came among some oak trees tha_ere near El Toboso; and when the moment they had agreed upon arrived, the_ade their entrance into the city, where something happened them that ma_airly be called something.