"The order of the Carthusians (answered Don Quixote), may be as strict, but that it is as beneficial to mankind I am within a hair's breadth of doubting; for, to be plain with you, the soldier who executes his captain's commands is no less valuable than the captain who gave the order: I mean, that the monks pray to God for their fellow-creatures in peace and safety; but we soldiers and knights put in execution that for which they pray, by the valour of our arms, and the edge of our swords: living under no other cover than the cope of heaven, set up in a manner as marks for the intolerable heat of the sun in summer, and the chilling breath of frosty winter we are therefore God's ministers, and the arms by which he executes his justice upon earth! and as the circumstances of war, and what has the least affinity and concern with it, cannot be accomplished without sweat, anxiety, and fatigue, it follows, that those who profess it are doubtless more subject to toil than those who, in rest and security, implore the favour of God for persons who can do nothing for themselves: not that I would be thought to say, or imagine, the condition of a knight-errant is equal to that of a recluse monk: I would only infer from what we suffer, that it is, without doubt, more troublesome, more battered, more famished, more miserable, ragged, and lousy; for the knightserrant of past times certainly underwent numberless misfortunes in the course of their lives: and if some of them came to be emperors by the valour of their arms, considering the blood and sweat it cost them, in faith it was a dear purchase: and if those who attained such a supreme station had been without their sage enchanters to assist them, they might have been defrauded by their desires, and grievously balked of their expectations." "I am very much of your opinion (answered the traveller); but there is one thing among you knights-errant that I cannot approve of, and that is, when any great and dangerous adventure occurs, in which you run a manifest risk of losing your lives, in the instant of an engage ment, you never think of recommending your souls to God, as every Christian ought to do on such occasions; but, on the contrary, put up your petitions to your mistresses, with as much fervour and devotion as if they were your deities; a circumstance which, in my opinion, smells strong of paganism." "Sir (replied Don Quixote), that practice must in no degree be altered; and woe be to that knight-errant who should do otherwise; for, according to the practice and custom of chivalry, every knight, when he is upon the point of achieving some great feat, must call up the idea of his mistress, and, turning his eyes upon her with all the gentleness of love, implore, as it were, by his looks, her favour and protection in the doubtful dilemma in which he is about to involve himself: nay, even though nobody should hear him, he is obliged to mutter between his teeth an ejaculation, by which he heartily and confidently recommends himself to her good wishes: and of this practice we have innumerable examples in history: but I would not have you think, that we are to forbear recommending ourselves to God also; there will be time and opportunity enough for that duty in the course of action.' "But, nevertheless (said the traveller), I have still one scruple remaining, which is, that I have often read of a dispute between two knights, which proceeding to rage, from one word to another, they have turned about their steeds, to gain ground for a good career; and then, without any more ceremony, returned to the encounter at full gallop, recommending themselves to their mistresses by the way; and the common issue of such an engagement is, that one of them is thrown down by his horse's crupper, stuck through and through with his adversary's lance, while the other, with difficulty, avoids a fall by laying hold of his horse's mane: now, I cannot comprehend how the dead man could have time to recommend himself to God, in the course of so sudden an attack; surely it would have been better for his soul, if, instead of the words he uttered in his career, he had put up a petition to Heaven, according to the duty and obligation of every Christian; especially, as I take it for granted that every knight-errant has not a mistress; for all of them cannot be in love." "That's impossible (answered Don Quixote). I affirm, that there never could be a knight-errant without a mistress; for to be in love is as natural and peculiar to them as the stars are to the heavens. I am very certain that you never read an history that gives an account of a knight-errant without an armour; for he that has never been in love would not be held as a legitimate member, but some adulterate brood, who had got into the fortress of chivalry, not through the gate, but over the walls, like a thief in the night." 66 "Yet, notwithstanding (said the traveller), I have read, that Don Galaor, brother of the valiant Amadis de Gaul, never had any known mistress to whom he could recommend himself, and he was not disregarded, but looked upon as a very valiant and famous knight." Signor (answered our hero Don Quixote), one swallow makes not a summer: besides, to my certain knowledge, that knight was privately very much in love; indeed he made love to every handsome woman who came in his way; for that was his natural disposition, which he by no means could resist in short, it is very well attested, that he had one mistress whom he enthroned as sovereign of his heart, and to whom he recommended himself with great caution and privacy, because he piqued himself upon being a secret knight." "Since then it is essential to every knight to be in love, we may conclude that your worship, being of that profession, is no stranger to that passion: and if you do not value yourself upon being as secret a knight as Don Galaor, I ear nestly entreat you, in behalf of myself and the rest of the company, to tell us the name, coun try, station, and qualities of your mistress, who must think herself extremely happy in reflecting that all the world knows how much she is beloved and adored by so valiant a knight as your worship appears to be.” Here Don Quixote uttered a grievous sigh, saying, I am not positively certain, whether or not that beauteous enemy of mine takes pleasure in the world's knowing I am her slave; this only I can say, in answer to the question you asked with so much civility, that her name is Dulcinea; her native country a certain part of La Mancha called Toboso; her station must at least be that of a princess, since she is queen and lady of my soul; her beauty supernatural, in that it justifies all those impossible and chimerical attributes of excellence, which the poets bestow upon their nymphs; her hair is of gold, her forehead the Elysian fields, her eyebrows heavenly arches, her eyes themselves suns, her cheeks roses, her lips of coral, her teeth of pearl, her neck alabaster, her breast marble, her hands ivory, her skin whiter than snow, and those parts which decency conceals from human view are such, according to my belief and apprehension, as discretion ought to enhance above all comparison." "I wish we knew her lineage, race, and family," replied Vivaldo. To this hint the knight answered, "She is not descended of the antient Caii, Curtii, and Scipios of Rome, nor of the modern Colonas and Orsini, nor of the Moncadas and Requesenes of Catalonia, much less of the Rebellas and Villanovas of Valencia; or the Palafaxes, Newcas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes, and Gurreas of Arragon; or the Cerdas, Manriquez, Mendozas, and Guzmans of Castile; or the Alencastros, Pallas, and Menesis of Portugal: but she sprung from the family of Toboso de la Mancha; a lineage which, though modern, may give a noble rise to the most illustrious families of future ages; and let no man contradict what I say, except upon the conditions expressed in that inscription placed by Cerbino under the trophy of Orlando's arms: That knight alone these arms shall move, "Although I myself am descended from the Cachopinest of Loredo (said the traveller), I. won't presume to compare with that of Toboso de la Mancha; though, to be plain with you, I never before heard of any such generation." "How, not heard!" replied Don Quixote. The rest of the company jogged on, listening with great attention to this discourse, and all of them, even the very goatherds, by this time were convinced that our knight's judgment was grievously impaired. Sancho alone believed that every thing his master said was true; be cause he knew his family, and had been acquainted with himself from his cradle. The only doubt that he entertained was of this same beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso; for never had such a name or such a princess come within the sphere of his observation, although he lived in the neighbourhood of that place. While they travelled along, conversing in this manner, they perceived about twenty shep herds descend through a cleft made by two high mountains. They were all clad in jackets of black sheep-skin, and each of them crowned with a garland, which was composed, as we afterwards learned, partly of cypress, and partly of yew: six of the foremost carried a bier; upon which they had strewed a variety of branches and flowers. And this was no sooner perceived by one of the goatherds, than he said, "These are the people who carry the corpse of Chrysostom, and the foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered himself to be interred." Upon this information they made haste, and came up just at the time that the bearers, having laid down the body, began to dig the grave with pick-axes on one side of a flinty rock.They received our travellers with great cour When a knight challenged the whole world, he wore an emprize, consisting of a gold chain, or some other badge of love and chivalry; and sometimes this emprize was fixed in a public place, to attract the attention of strangers. When any person accepted the challenge for a trial of chivalry, called the combat of courtesy, he touched this emprize; but, if he tore it away, it was considered as a resolution to fight the owner to extremity or outrance. The combat of courtesy is still practised by our prize-fighters and boxers, who shake hands before the engagement, in token of love. But no defiance of this kind could be either published or accepted without the permission of the prince at whose court the combatants chanced to be. Accordingly we are told by Oliver de la March, that the lord of Ternant having published a defiance at the court of Burgundy, in the year 1445, Galiot asked the duke's permission to touch the challenger's emprize; which being granted, he advanced and touched it, saying to the bearer, while he bowed very low, "Noble knight, I touch your emprize; and, with God's permission, will do my utmost to fulfil your desire either on horseback or on foot." The lord of Ternant humbly thanked him for his condescension, said he was extremely welcome, and promised to send him that same day a cartel, mentioning the arms they should use. + Cachopines is the name given to the Europeans by the Indians of Mexico. tesy; and Don Quixote, with his company, went towards the bier to look at the dead body, which was covered with flowers, clad in shepherd's weeds, and seemingly thirty years old. Notwithstanding he was dead, they could plainly perceive that he had been a man of an engaging aspect and genteel stature; and could not help wondering at the sight of a great many papers, both sealed and loose, that lay round him in the coffin. While the new-comers were observing this phenomenon, and the shepherds busied in digging a grave, a wonderful and universal silence prevailed, till such time as one of the bearers said to another, "Consider, Ambrosio, if this be the very spot which Chrysostom mentioned, that his last will may be punctually fulfilled." "This (answered Ambrosio) is the very place in which my unhappy friend has often recounted to me the story of his misfortunes. Here it was he first beheld that mortal enemy of the human race; here also did he first declare his amorous and honourable intention; and here, at last, did Marcella signify her disgust and disdain, which put an end to the tragedy of his wretched life; and in this place, as a monument of his mishap, did he desire to be deposited in the bowels of eternal oblivion." Then, addressing himself to Don Quixote and the travellers, he thus proceeded: "This corpse, gentlemen, which you behold with compassionate eyes, was the habitation of a soul which possessed an infinite share of the riches of Heaven: this is the body of Chrysostom, who was a man of unparalleled genius, the pink of courtesy and kindness; in friendship, a very phoenix, liberal without bounds, grave without arrogance, gay without meanness; and, in short, second to none in every thing that was good, and without second in all that was unfortunate. He loved, and was abhorred; he adored, and was disdained; he implored a savage; he importuned a statue; he hunted the wind; cried aloud to the desert; he was a slave to the most ungrateful of women; and the fruit of his servitude was death, which overtook him in the middle of his career: in short, he perished by the cruelty of a shepherdess, whom he has eternized in the memory of all the people in this country; as these papers which you gaze at will shew, if he had not ordered me to commit them to the flames as soon as his body shall be deposited in the earth." "You will use them then with more cruelty and rigour (said Vivaldo), than that of the author himself: seeing it is neither just nor convenient to fulfil the will of any man, provided it be unreasonable. Augustus Cæsar would have been in the wrong, had he consented to the execution of what the divine Mantuan ordered on his death-bed. Wherefore, Signor Ambrosio, while you commit the body of your friend to the earth, you ought not likewise to consign his writings to oblivion; nor perform indiscreetly what he in his affliction ordained; on the contrary, by publishing these papers, you ought to immortalize the cruelty of Marcella, that it may serve as an example in time to come, and warn young men to shun and avoid such dangerous precipices; for I and the rest of this company already know the history of that enamoured and unhappy friend, the nature of your friendship, the occasion of his death, together with the orders that he left upon his death-bed; from which lamentable story it is easy to conclude, how excessive must have been the cruelty of Marcella, the love of Chrysostom, the faith of your friendship, and the check which those receive who precipitately run through the path exhibited to them by idle and mischievous love. Last night, we understood the death of Chrysostom, who, we are informed, was to be buried in this place; and therefore, out of curiosity and concern, have turned out of our way, resolving to come, and see with our eyes what had affected us so much in the hearing; and in return for that concern, and the desire we felt in remedying it, if it had been in our power, we entreat thee, O discreet Ambrosio ! at least, for my own part, I beg of thee not to burn these papers, but allow me to preserve some of them.' Accordingly, without staying for an answer, he reached out his hand, and took some of those that were nearest him; which Ambrosio perceiving, said, "Out of civility, signor, I will consent to your keeping what you have taken up; but to think that I will fail to burn the rest, is a vain supposition." Vivaldo being desirous of seeing the contents, immediately opened one, entitled, A Song of Despair; which Ambrosio hearing, said, "That is the last poem my unhappy friend composed; and that you may see, signor, to what a pass his misfortunes had reduced him, read it aloud, and you'll have time enough to finish it before the grave be made!" That I will do with all my heart," said Vivaldo; and every body present being seized with the same desire, they stood around him in a circle, and he read what follows, with an audible voice: A SONG OF DESPAIR. Since then thy pleasure, cruel maid! And thy achievements to record, That issues from my throbbing breast, Thy pride, perhaps, it may confound, And yield my maddning sout some rest. Let the snake's hiss, and wolf's dire howl, And reason from her throne depose; That from my burning liver flows! Old Tagus, with his yellow hair, Or listen to such notes of death, From hill to dale, from rock to cave, In wilds untrod by human feet, In dungeons dreary as the grave; The beasts of prey that scour the plain, Shall thy more savage nature know, The spacious earth resound my strain; Such is the privilege of woe! Disdain is death, and doubt o'erturns The patience of the firmest mind; But jealousy still fiercer burns, Like all the flames of hell combined! The horrors of that cursed fiend, In absence to distraction rage, And all the succour hope can lend, The direful pangs will not assuage. Such agonies will surely kill; Yet, spite of absence, doubts and scorn, I live a miracle, and still Those deadly flames within me burn! Hope's shadow ne'er refresh'd my view, Despair attends with wakeful strife; The first let happier swains pursue, The last my consort is for life. Can hope and fear at once prevail, When fear on certainty is fed? To shut mine eyes will not avail, When thunder bursts around my head, When cold disdain in native dye Appears, and falsehood's cunning lore Perverts the tale of truth, shall I Against despondence shut the door? O jealousy! love's tyrant lord, And thou soul-chilling dire disdain ! Yet still those are the freest souls, In body and in mind, I'll say, And I have earn'd the woes I bear : A prey to unrelenting scorn; I offer this devoted frame. Those eyes so killing and so clear. No! rather let thy mirth display The joys that in thy bosom flow; Ah! need I bid that heart be gay Which always triumph'd in my woe. Come then, for ever barr'd of bliss, Ye, who with ceaseless torment dwell, And, agonizing, howl and hiss In the profoundest shades of hell; Come, Tantalus, with raging thirst, Bring, Sysiphus, thy rolling stone, Come, Titius, with thy vulture curst, Nor leave Ixion rack'd alone. The toiling sisters too shall join, And my sad solemn dirge repeat, When to the grave my friends consign These limbs, deny'd a winding-sheet; Fierce Cerberus shall clank his chain, In chorus with chimeras dire: What other pomp, what other strain, Should he who dies of love require? Be hush'd my song, complain no more Of her whose pleasure gave thee birth ; But let the sorrows I deplore Sleep with me in the silent earth. This ditty of Chrysostom was approved by all the hearers; but he who read it observed, that it did not seem to agree with the report he had heard of Marcella's virtue and circumspection; inasmuch as the author complained of jealousy, absence, and suspicion, which terded to the prejudice of her morals and reputation. To this objection Ambrosio, as one that was acquainted with the most secret sentiments of his friend, answered, "Signor, for your satisfaction in this point, it is necessary you should know, that the forlorn shepherd composed this song in the absence of Marcella, from whose presence he had gone into voluntary exile, in order to try if he could reap the usual fruits of absence, and forget the cause of his despair; and, as one in that situation is apt to be fretted by every circumstance, and invaded by every apprehension, poor Chrysostom was harassed by groundless jealousy and imaginary fears, which tormented him as much as if they had been real; for which reason, this circumstance ought not to invalidate the fame of Marcella's virtue, against which, exclusive of her cruelty, arrogance, and disdain, envy itself hath not been able to lay the least imputation." 66 That may be very true," replied Vivaldo, who being about to read another of the papers he had saved from the flames, was diverted from his purpose by a wonderful vision, for such it seemed, that all of a sudden presented itself to their eyes. This was no other than the shepherdess Marcella, who appeared upon the top of the rock, just above the grave they were digging, so beautiful that she surpassed all report. Those who had never seen her before, gazed with silent admiration; nor were the rest, who had been accustomed to see her, less astonished at her appearance. But no sooner did Ambrosio perceive her, than, with indignation in his looks, he cried, "Comest thou hither, fierce basilisk of these mountains! to see if the wounds of this unhappy youth whom thy cruelty hath slain, will bleed at thy approach? or art thou come to rejoice in the exploits of thy barbarity, and from the top of that mountain benold, like another Nero, the flames which thy impiety hath kindled? or inhumanly to trample upon this unfortunate corse, as the unnatural daughter in sulted the dead body of her father Tarquin? Tell us at once the cause of thy approach, and deign to signify thy pleasure, that I who know how devoutly Chrysostom obeyed thee, when alive, may, now that he is dead, dispose his friends to yield the same obedience." "I come not (answered Marcella), for any of the purposes you have mentioned, Ambrosio; but rather personally to demonstrate how unreasonably people blame me for their own affliction, as well as for the death and sufferings of Chrysostom. I beg, therefore, that all present will give me the hearing, as it will be unnecessary to spend much time, or waste many words, to convince those that are unprejudiced, of the truth. Heaven, you say, hath given me beauty, nay, such a share of it, as compels you to love me, in spite of your resolutions to the contrary; from whence you draw this inference, and insist upon it, that it is my duty to return your passion. By the help of that small capacity which nature has bestowed upon me, I know that which is beautiful is lovely; but I can by no means conceive, why the object which is beloved for being beautiful, is bound to be enamoured of its admirer: more especially, as it may happen that this same admirer is an object of disgust and abhorrence; in which case, would it be reasonable in him to say, "I love thee because thou art beautiful, and thou must favour my passion, although I am deformed?" But, granting the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the desires ought to be mutual; for all sorts of beauty do not equally affect the spectator; some, for example, delighting the eye only, without captivating the heart. And well it is for mankind, that things are thus disposed, otherwise there would be a strange perplexity and confusion of desires, without power of distinguishing and choosing particular objects; for, beauty being infinitely diversified, the inclination would be infinitely divided: and I have heard, that true love must be undivided and unconstrained: if this be the case, as I believe it is, why should I constrain my inclination, when I am under no other obligation so to do, but your saying that you are in love with me? Otherwise tell me, if Heaven, that made me handsome, had created me a monster of deformity, should I have had cause to complain of you for not loving me? Besides, you are to consider, that I did not choose the beauty I possess; such as it is, God was pleased, of his own free will and favour, to bestow it upon me, without any solicitation on my part. There fore, as the viper deserves no blame for its sting, although it be mortal, because it is the gift of nature, neither ought I to be reviled for being beautiful; for beauty in a virtuous woman is like a distant flame and a sharp sword afar off, which prove fatal to none but those who approach too near them. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the soul; without which the body, though never so handsome, ought to seem ugly; if chastity then be one of the virtues which chiefly adorns and beautifies both body and soul, why should she that is beloved lose that jewel for which she is chiefly beloved, merely to satisfy the appetite of one who, for his own selfish enjoyment, employs his whole care and industry to destroy it; I was born free, and to enjoy that freedom, have I chosen the solitude of these fields. The trees on these mountains are my companions; and I have no other mirror than the limpid streams of these crystal brooks. With the trees and the streams I share my contemplation and my beauty; I am a distant flame and a sword afar off: those whom my eyes have captivated my tongue has undeceived; and if hope be the food of desire, as I gave none to Chrysostom, or to any other person, so neither can his death, nor that of any other of my admirers, be justly imputed to my cruelty, but rather to their own obstinate despair. To those who observe that his intentions were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to comply with them, I answer, when he declared the honesty of his designs, in that very spot where now his grave is digging, I told him, my purpose was to live in perpetual solitude, and let the earth alone enjoy the fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty: wherefore, if he, notwithstanding this my explanation, persevered without hope, and sailed against the wind, it is no wonder that he was overwhelmed in the gulph of his rashness. Had |