"So that's the story, master barber," said Don Quixote, "which came in so

pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it? Master shaver,

master shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a sieve. Is it

possible that you do not know that comparisons of wit with wit, valour

with valour, beauty with beauty, birth with birth, are always odious and

unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the god of the waters, nor

do I try to make anyone take me for an astute man, for I am not one. My

only endeavour is to convince the world of the mistake it makes in not

reviving in itself the happy time when the order of knight-errantry was

in the field. But our depraved age does not deserve to enjoy such a

blessing as those ages enjoyed when knights-errant took upon their

shoulders the defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the succour

of orphans and minors, the chastisement of the proud, and the recompense

of the humble. With the knights of these days, for the most part, it is

the damask, brocade, and rich stuffs they wear, that rustle as they go,

not the chain mail of their armour; no knight now-a-days sleeps in the

open field exposed to the inclemency of heaven, and in full panoply from

head to foot; no one now takes a nap, as they call it, without drawing

his feet out of the stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, as the

knights-errant used to do; no one now, issuing from the wood, penetrates

yonder mountains, and then treads the barren, lonely shore of the

sea--mostly a tempestuous and stormy one--and finding on the beach a

little bark without oars, sail, mast, or tackling of any kind, in the

intrepidity of his heart flings himself into it and commits himself to

the wrathful billows of the deep sea, that one moment lift him up to

heaven and the next plunge him into the depths; and opposing his breast

to the irresistible gale, finds himself, when he least expects it, three

thousand leagues and more away from the place where he embarked; and

leaping ashore in a remote and unknown land has adventures that deserve

to be written, not on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs

over energy, indolence over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over

courage, and theory over practice in arms, which flourished and shone

only in the golden ages and in knights-errant. For tell me, who was more

virtuous and more valiant than the famous Amadis of Gaul? Who more

discreet than Palmerin of England? Who more gracious and easy than

Tirante el Blanco? Who more courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who more

slashed or slashing than Don Belianis? Who more intrepid than Perion of

Gaul? Who more ready to face danger than Felixmarte of Hircania? Who more

sincere than Esplandian? Who more impetuous than Don Cirongilio of

Thrace? Who more bold than Rodamonte? Who more prudent than King Sobrino?

Who more daring than Reinaldos? Who more invincible than Roland? and who

more gallant and courteous than Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara

of the present day are descended, according to Turpin in his

'Cosmography.' All these knights, and many more that I could name, senor

curate, were knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These, or

such as these, I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his

Majesty would find himself well served and would save great expense, and

the Turk would be left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am,

as the chaplain does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber has

told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I please. I

say this that Master Basin may know that I understand him."




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