The Life and Notable Adventures of that Renown'd Knight, Don Quixote De la Mancha ::

The Don's Romantick Books survey'd
By Priest and Barber, Niece and Maid;
The Righteous Judge secures the best,
And to the Flames condemns the rest.

Next Morning by the time the Sun
Had his diurnal Course begun,
The Parish-Guide and Parish-Shaver
Came to the Seignior's House together,
Where Mistress Nabby and the Niece
Had set out Wine and Bread and Cheese,
That they might break their Fast before
They look'd the Seignior's Study o'er;
A Task of Time as well as Labour,
To punish what had craz'd their Neighbour.

No sooner had they chear'd their Hearts,
With three or four repeated Quarts

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Of humming Liquor mull'd and brew'd
With costly Spice, to make it good,
But up the Stairs they gently crept,
Whilst Quixote very soundly slept,
In order to inspect and rummage
The Study that had done such Damage;
The Niece admitting, by the Key,
Her trusty self and t'other Three;
The House-keeper, who having heard
Strange Nigromantick Stories, fear'd
The Room might be with Spirits haunted,
Or by her Master's Spells Inchanted,
Because his Custom 'twas to start
Most frightful Tales of Magick Art,
And us'd to Lard his Conversation
With Wonders done by Conjuration;
Therefore she'd carefully brought a'ter
The Priest, a Pot of Holy-Water,
Humbly beseeching him to take
The Sprinkler, and for Heaven's sake

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To shake it o'er each Hole and Creek,
For fear the subtle Fiend Old-Nick,
Or some Infernal Sprite should in
The sinful Study lurk unseen,
Who by its Power might circumvent
Their pious friendly good Intent
Of burning what had brought her Master
Beneath so fatal a Disaster.

The Guide reply'd, There is no fear
Of Satan whilst a Priest is near;
The Devil always flies the Room,
Where-e'er our Holy Function come.
So calling, when he'ad made this Answer,
To his Friend Nicolas, the Tonsor,
He order'd him to hand him down
The Heath'nish Volumes one by one,
That with due Care he might o'erlook
Each idle individual Book,
And pass such Judgment upon those
Who'd been his Friend's seducing Foes,

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That might at once prevent their further
Occasion of his sad Disorder,
But save, by vertue of his Gown,
The Good and Guiltless as his own,;
Consid'ring that no humane Laws
Should damn the Innocent, because
Unknowingly they chance to be
Betray'd into bad Company.

The angry Females pleaded hard
That not one Volume should be spar'd,
Of several Hundreds that were pil'd
On Shelves, but all be burnt and spoil'd,
Since they themselves could witness bear
That each bewitching Volume there,
Had, in their turns, contributed
To craze his studious Worship's Head:
They therefore beg'd all might be thrown,
Thro' Study-Casement, headlong down
Into a bleeching Yard, that lay
Behind, convenient ev'ry way,

137

Where none could see or smell the while,
The smoaky Exit of the Pile.

But still the Curate was too wise
To mind their Importunities,
Resolving to inspect 'em first,
At least the Titles, that the worst
Might be condemn'd for their Abuses,
And the best sav'd for better Uses:
So putting on, as Judges do,
An awful Magisterial Brow,
Looking most gravely and discreet,
He now assum'd his Judgment-seat,
Where Culprits bound in Leathern Hide
Were haul'd before him to be try'd.

The first that to the Bar were brought
To be arraign'd of God knows what,
Were the Four Volumes of Amadis,
Handed by Nic'las and the Ladies;
I own, quoth Sacerdotal Judge,
To these old Books I owe a grudge,

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Because they were the first Romances
That introduc'd those Idle Fancies,
And sow'd in Spain, as most agree,
That freakish Vice Knight-Errantry;
Therefore as they originally
Were the Four Founders of that Folly,
And Teachers of that Frantick Fighting,
As well as of Romantick Writing,
I think 'tis fit they should be doom'd
To be in fatal Flames consum'd.

‘Hold (quoth the Barber) I desire
‘To save these Volumes from the Fire,
‘Because they are allow'd, we find,
‘To be the wittiest of their kind;
‘I therefore humbly crave your leave
‘To beg both them and their Reprieve.

Well, honest Nic'las, cry'd the Curate,
To shew I'm not a Man obdurate,
I'll grant a Pardon for your sake,
Altho' I know their Crimes are black:

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However take them to thyself,
And hand some other from the Shelf.

The next Romantick Volume brought
To hasty Judgment for its Fau't,
Was the fam'd Actions of that Man
Of Valour, Don Esplandian,
The lawful Issue of Amadis
De Gaul, who fought so for the Ladies.
Nay, cries the Priest, with shaking Head,
Sure none in thy Defence can plead,
Nor shall thy Father's Wit atone
For want of Merit in the Son;
No Mortal shall for thee prevail,
Here take him Mistress Abigail;
He's a meer Hector, poor and nought,
The Scoundrel is not worth a Groat;
Pray toss him down into the Yard,
For he's too wicked to be spar'd,
Use him as the Foundation-Stone
To erect the Learned Pile upon,

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Which your fair Hand shall set on fire,
That in a blaze they may expire,
According to your own desire.

‘Here's a huge Volume, (cries the Shaver)
‘I think I never felt a heavier:
‘This, for its Bulk, deserves no Quarter,
‘'Twould load the Shoulders of a Porter;
‘This is Amadis, born in Greece,
‘A notable deluding Piece;
‘This Book, so wond'rous edifying,
‘Contains the very Art of Lying:
‘Nay, outdoes, in that sort of Wit,
‘All that the Jesuits ever writ;
‘And is, I'll swear, enough to crack
‘The Brain not only, but the Back.

I've heard enough, (reply'd the Priest)
E'en pack him downwards with the rest
That do their Readers so deceive
With Lies, they merit no reprieve.

141

‘This upper Classis (cries the Barber)
‘Does none but such like Lumber harbour;
‘By their unweildy Bulk I see
‘They're all upon Knight-Errantry,
‘Books that their Authors did devise,
‘To fill the giddy World with Lyes,
‘And tempt us to mispend our Prime,
‘In fighting Prose and am'rous Rhime.

Down with them all, (cries Holy Guide)
And let the Vermin be destroy'd,
That we may then proceed to try
Those other Imps, the lesser Fry;
For rather than I'd save or skreen
Antiquinestra, that fair Queen
From burning, or from flaming Pile,
Protect the Shepherd Darinel,
His Eclogues, and the Author's worse
Intolerable dull Discourse,
I'd burn my Grandsire should he be
Bound up in old Knight-Errantry.

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The Housekeeper and Neice b'ing glad
To hear this Sentence, toil'd like Mad,
To fetch those bigger Loobies down
That did the Senior's Study crown,
Tossing them out, without regard
To their old Fellows in the Yard,
Where the dull Crowd were forc'd to wait
Confus'dly mix'd, to share their Fate.

Cries Nich'las, Here's another Shelf
Of Lumber, in a Nook by'ts self,
Come forward one of you that skulk
Behind to hide your mighty Bulk:
Here's Olivant de Laura, Doctor,
A worthy notable Instructor,
The famous Author, alias Father,
Of this huge Muckhil pil'd together,
Has writ another noble Piece,
By some thought ten times worse than this,
The Gard'n of Flowers is the sweet
Inviting Name to's shallow Wit;

143

Both being stuff'd with little else
Than worthless Whims and monstrous Tales,
Alike fit only to surprise
The Reader with stupendious Lyes;
Therefore e'en let 'em downwards go,
Among the rest that wait below.

Here's more Antiquity (cries Tonsor)
This Book is older than my Grandsire:
Here you may read how Florismart,
The fam'd Hyrcanian play'd his Part.

‘Is Florismart, (replies the Priest)
‘That Noble Lord, among the rest?
‘Neither his Valour, nor his Worth,
‘Or yet the strangeness of his Birth,
‘Or his incredible Exploits,
‘Shall save him from his Brother Knights;
‘For his rough, dull, insipid Style
‘Deserves at least a flaming Pile,
‘E'en turn him down into the Yard,
‘For he may very well be spar'd;

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Which Orders gladly were obey'd
By Niece and Nab as soon as said.

Next, (cries the Barber) comes Don Platir,
That famous fighting Fornicator,
I guess he'll merit nothing more,
Than those old Champions gone before.

‘Truly, (replies the Priest) I own
‘I have no Favour for the Don,
‘E'en turn him downwards, for at best
‘He's an old Lyar like the rest.

Then busy Tonsor chanc'd to look
Upon another Errant-Book,
Nam'd in its Front, The Knight o'th' Cross,
Which put the Curate to a loss:
Says he, This Book deserves a little
Compassion for its Holy Title:
But since the Devil lurks behind
The Cross, as we in Proverb find,
We shall no great Injustice do
In case we send him packing too;

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For Holy Names to Heath'nish Books
Are like a Pious Villain's Looks,
Us'd only to disguise the Sin,
And impious Lusts that lurk within:
E'en toss him down into the Yard,
He may do Mischief if he's spar'd.

Then Tonsor reaching down the next,
Cry'd to th' Expounder of the Text,
Now, Doctor, if you want to see
The Quintessence of Errantry,
This Book of Knighthood you will find
The only Mirrour of its kind.

Quoth Priest, I know him by his Looks,
I own him as the Book of Books,
That is, with due Consideration
To's Lying or Romantick Station;
There you may find the Noble Lord
Rinaldo brandishing his Sword,
With such Companions as he lov'd,
Horse Thieves than Cacus ever prov'd;

202

With them the Twelve bold Peers of France,
Who did their Fame so high advance;
Among the rest that faithful Man,
Turpin, the Just Historian.
I own I have an itching Mind
To be to these a little kind,
Am therefore willing to prevent
Their Fate by only Banishment,
Because the Story does contain,
As 'tis agreed by Learned Men,
Something of Boyardo's Invention,
Which gives unto the whole a Sanction,
For nothing can partake his Spirit,
But what must in itself have Merit;
Besides, that famous Christian Poet,
Ariosto's Writings, plainly show it,
That thence the Subject he derives,
Wherein his Mem'ry chiefly lives,
And his bright Fame his Dust survives;

203

Yet should a Bard of his Degree
Keep such notorious Company,
And he should stamm'ring turn his Tone
To any Language but his own,
No more Indulgence shall be shown him
By me, than if I'd never known him;
But if he speaks his Mother-Tongue,
I vow I cannot do him wrong,
Because his Excellency claims
A just exemption from the Flames,
And so deserves our estimation,
That none can wish his Conflagration.

‘I've one at home, (cries Tonsor Nick)
‘But mine does in Italian speak;
‘So that I am not so politely
‘Bred as to understand him rightly.

No reason that you should, reply'd
The solemn, grave, judicious Guide;
For Works of Authors so discerning,
Are only fit for Men of Learning.

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Nor can I much commend the Whim
O'th' Captain who translated him,
And forc'd him so against the Grain,
To hoarsely speak the Tongue of Spain;
Because he's wrong'd in many places
Of all those beauteous Thoughts and Graces
That in his native Stile appear
So sweet, so excellent and clear:
A Fault that few escape who venture
On Tasks so difficult to enter:
For he that undertakes to shew
A Poet in a Dress that's new,
If the Original be fine,
His Numbers flowing and divine,
Is but like that officious Ninny
Who gives us Silver for a Guinea.
'Tis true, what we receive is more
In Bulk, but 'tis in baser Ore.
Therefore, Friend Nich'las, I desire
To save this Volume from the Fire;

205

Likewise all other Books that chance
To treat of the Affairs of France,
Pray let them be with Care laid by
In Vault or Closet that is dry,
Till we find Methods to dispose
Of those as Friends, instead of Foes:
But one Exception I must make,
And beg you for right Reason's sake,
That if you meet with in your way,
Bernardo, stil'd del Carpio, pray
Deliv'r him freely up at sight,
To th' Dames that wait to do him right:
Or if you should, in Hole or Nook,
Find Roncesvalles, that fam'd Book,
O! let him be excepted from
All Mercy, and receive his Doom;
For certain they must lurk among
This empty, vile, romantick Throng;
Therefore, Friend Nich'las, prithee watch 'em,
For they're condemn'd before we catch 'em.

206

Cries Tonsor, ‘Be assur'd, Good Doctor,
‘I'll do the Will of my Instructor;
‘But, by the way, what is't you say
‘To Palmerin de Oliva,
‘For here he is, and in my view
‘Stands Palmerin of England too.
‘What Sentence does your Worship please
‘To pass judiciously on these?

Ha! (cries the Priest) Do you appear?
I thought that we should find you here:
As for de Oliva, be sure
You give him up to Female Pow'r,
Let the Fair make him, Page by Page,
A Sacrifice to Woman's Rage;
Rend him, unbind him, burn him a'ter,
And let the Wind his Ashes scatter:
But as for t'other Palmerin
Of England, 'twould be thought a Sin
To doom his noble ancient Style,
To perish in the flaming Pile;

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Not 'cause his Tales are finely told,
And that he's singular and old;
Or for neat Management and Care
At Miraguarda-Castle, where
The Author shows his Wit and Art
Discreetly mix'd in ev'ry part:
Not that I say it only shou'd
Escape, because it's old and good,
But for its high Degree, much rather,
Because it had a Royal Father;
For some, who know the growth of Wit,
Affirm, this famous Book was writ,
Most part thereof, if not the whole,
By a Learn'd King of Portugal;
Therefore let's keep the Offspring back
From Execution, for the sake
Of that renown'd Majestick He,
Who got the spritely Progeny;
For tho' a better Book should be
Compil'd by one of low Degree,

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Yet due regard should still be shown
To th' meanest Issue of a Throne.

‘Burn him, or save him, which you please,
(Quoth Nick) ‘I long to be at Ease:
‘My Shoulders are so tir'd, I vow,
‘With lifting such a lumbring Crew,
‘That I must rest, and take off just
‘One Glass of Mountain and a Crust,
‘And then (Fair Ladies) you will see
‘The Work go on most chearfully.

Well said, Friend Nicholas, (reply'd
The Priest) I must be of your side;
Continual Labour and no Play,
Makes Jack a heavy Boy, they say.
Quoth Niece & Nabby, ‘Pray good Neighbours,
‘If you're grown weary cease your Labours,
‘And we'll go fetch whate'er you think
‘Is best for you to eat and drink.

Thus all desiring to be Idle,
They cut their Work off in the middle,

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Sending some respite in enjoying
The sweets of Junketing and Toying.

Thus when the Head, that bears the Rule,
Turns Madman, or a Careless Fool,
Those who obey'd whilst he was wise,
Will then Command and Tyrannize.

University of Virginia Library

CANTO XI.