Chapter XI (5)

"The author begins by mentioning, or feigning, that a book had been published some time ago, entitled, 'Don Quixote de la Mancha,' but that for some time he had felt no inclination to read it, conceiving that it was only one of the romances of the day, or that its author had not talent sufficient to produce a work of any excellence. For this reason, he, like most others, felt no desire to read it; till at last, influenced by mere curiosity, he bought it, and having read it once, he felt impelled to read it again with more pleasure and attention; and then he became convinced that it was one of the cleverest books that had seen light, and a satire full of information and amusement, and written with the greatest dexterity and cleverness, for the purpose of dispelling the enthusiasm which the nation in general, and principally the nobles, felt for works of chivalry; and that the persons introduced were merely imaginary, brought in only for the sake of indicating those whose heads were thus turned. Nevertheless, it was not so entirely imaginary, but that an allusion might be perceived to the character and chivalrous actions of a certain champion, a favourite of fame, and of other paladins who had sought to imitate him, as well as other persons who had charge of the government of a most extensive and wealthy region of former times. The author went on to compare the incidents; and, although he artfully disguises some, he nevertheless plainly showed that he had in view the enterprises and gallantry of Charles V., as most of the points apply to this hero, though so veiled, both with regard to him and other persons, that it is impossible to point them out. At length he concluded, by saying, that to compensate to the author for the injury he had done him in the first instance, and to undeceive the prepossession of others, and that they might discover the treasure hid under that title, he had resolved to publish the "Buscapié," which might excite the attention of the unoccupied (which was almost all Spain), and entice them to take the book in hand and read it, well persuaded that whoever once cast his eyes on it, would appreciate at its just value that which they had before despised."

Whether this story be true, and whether "Don Quixote" owed its first celebrity to the "Buscapié," we will not decide; though I own I am led to reject it as unworthy. Cervantes makes no allusion to it in his after works; and it seems more probable that it was written by some friend or disciple, than by himself. It is said that the trick succeeded: at any rate, the book at first excited no attention, and then, suddenly coming into vogue, it was devoured with insatiable curiosity. [Sidenote: 1605.] Four editions were published in Spain in one year, and its fame became spread to all neighbouring countries, and in no long time reached this island.

Books in those days sometimes enriched authors by gaining for them patrons and pensions; the mere sale brought no great profit. No doubt Cervantes's distress was somewhat alleviated; but still poverty clung to him, while his very success excited the enmity of a variety of the men of letters of the day, who could not endure that a man whose talents they had regarded with no consideration, should suddenly pass over the heads of all: a cloud of satires, epigrams, and criticism were levelled against his work. Old rough doctor Johnson would have revelled in such testimony of his popularity, and Cervantes was at least secure in having the laugh on his side. Los Rios, however, observes, that if the many satires, attacks, and persecutions, which the author and his book suffered had not been submerged in oblivion, or drowned in the quantity of eulogies and defences heaped on him by men of talent, who continued to subtract such disagreeable productions from the eyes of posterity, it would now appear, that "Don Quixote" had been written in the midst of a nation enemy to the muses. Now the attacks of these men redound to their own discredit, displaying only their envy or incredible bad taste. Cervantes indeed had not spared the authors of his time, and they almost all set themselves in array against him. Lope de Vega, from the height of his prosperity, showed a condescending good nature, which, considering that he was attacked in "Don Quixote," shows a sort of lion magnanimity: he even declared that the writings of Cervantes were not devoid of grace or style. Don Luis de Gongora, a man of whom further mention will be made in this work, was his most virulent critic. Figuero, and Villegas both contributed their mite of disapprobation. We cannot tell how Cervantes viewed their attacks, but his warm heart must have been pained at the falling off of some of his friends; among these was Vicente Espinel, who had merit enough as a poet, perfect in his class, to hail with pleasure, instead of enviously depreciating, the merit of his friend.

Cervantes mentions some of these satires, and in particular, one sent to him in a letter when he was at Valladolid.[67] [Sidenote: 1605.] The circumstances accompanying this letter show that he was settled and had a house in that city. Philip III. had established his court there, and doubtless Cervantes thought that in the first flush of success his being in its immediate neighbourhood might occasion some noble to become his patron. When Philip IV. was born, James I. of England sent admiral lord Howard to present a treaty of peace, and to congratulate Philip III. on the birth of his son. [Sidenote: 1605.] He was received with the utmost magnificence: bull fights, tournaments, masked balls, religious ceremonies--all of feasting and splendour that the court could display, were put in requisition The duke of Lerma caused an account of these festivities to be written: it is said that Cervantes was the author.

These rejoicings were scarcely over when an event occurred greatly to distress Cervantes, who seems to have been marked out by fortune for the endurance of every variety of galling disaster.

There lived in Valladolid a cavalier of Saint-Jago, don Gaspar de Ezpeleta, an intimate acquaintance of the marquis de Falces. On the night of the 27th of June, 1605, this gentleman, having supped, as he often did, with his friend, returned home on foot over an open field to a wooden bridge over the river Esqueva. He was here met by a stranger wrapped in a large cloak, who accosted him with incivility, and a quarrel ensuing, they drew their swords, and don Gaspar fell pierced by many wounds. Calling for help, and bleeding profusely, he staggered on towards a house near the bridge; part of the first floor of this house was occupied by donna Luisa de Montoya, widow of the historian Esteban de Garibay, with her two sons; the other part by Cervantes and his family. The cries of the wounded man drew the attention of one of the sons of Garibay, who rousing Cervantes, who had gone to bed, they proceeded to his assistance. They found him lying at their porch, his sword in one hand and buckler in another, and carried him into the apartment of donna Luisa, where he expired on the following day. An inquest was held by the alcayd de casa y corte. Cristobal de Villarroel, who, like all other officers of justice in Spain, took the safe side of suspecting the worst, and throwing every body into prison. Cervantes, his wife, donna Catalina de Palacios y Salazar; his daughter donna Isabel de Saavedra, twenty years of age; his sister donna Andrea de Cervantes, who was a widow, with a daughter named donna Costanza de Ovando, twenty-eight years of age; a nun called donna Magdalena de Sotomayor, who was also termed a sister of Cervantes; his servant maid Maria de Cevallos, and two friends, who were staying in his house, one named Señor de Cigales, and a Portuguese, Simon Mendez, made their depositions, and were indiscriminately thrown into prison. It is so usual in Italy as well as Spain to suppose that all those who come to the assistance of a murdered man, have had a hand in his assassination, that such an act probably excited no wonder. After a confinement of eight days, and a vast quantity of interrogation they were, on giving security, set at liberty. The depositions taken on this occasion show that Cervantes was still employed as an agent. When we consider that he maintained all these relations, we wonder less at his poverty, while we admire his liberality and kindness of heart. Nor can we help remarking from this enumeration of his household, that Cervantes had that predilection for women's society which characterises the gentler and more gifted of his sex.

[Sidenote: 1606. Ætat. 59.]

Though it is impossible to fix dates with any precision, there is reason to believe that when the court returned to Madrid in 1606; Cervantes followed it, and continued to inhabit that city to the end of his life. The freedom and society of a capital is always agreeable to a literary man; and his native town of Alcalà de Henares; and his wife's of Esquivias were at a convenient distance. It has been ascertained that in June, 1609, he lived in the Calle (street) de la Magdelena; a little after; behind the college of Nuestra Señora de Loretto; in June; 1610, at 9 Calle del Leon; in 1614 in Calle de Las Huertas; afterwards, in the Calle de el Duque de Alva, at the corner of St. Isidoro; and lastly, in 1616, at 20 Calle del Leon, where he died.

It must rather have been the capital than the court that attracted him, for he lived in obscurity and neglect. He had only two friends of rank, who allowed him some small income; these were don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas, archbishop of Toledo, and don Pedro Fernandez de Castro, count of Lemos; and this was done through no solicitation on the part of Cervantes, nor in reward for any adulatory dedication, but simply out of admiration for his talent, and sympathy for his poverty.[68] At this time despotism and bigotry were extending their influence. Spain had degenerated, and letters, cultivated not long before with enthusiasm, were falling into neglect. The nobility surrounded themselves with jesters and flatterers, neglecting men of merit. Of the few of the old leaven, men admiring talent, and desirous of serving it, were the cardinal de Toledo, and the count of Lemos. The first was respected for his retired habits and generosity; the other for his munificence and popularity. The cardinal treated men of letters with kindness and urbanity. The count sought out the necessitous and suffering among them, assisting them at their need with unlimited generosity.

In 1610 the count of Lemos was named viceroy of Naples; and here again Cervantes was doomed to disappointment. The count of Lemos held in high esteem the two Argensolas. These brothers, Lupercio and Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola, were of a family originally of Ravenna in Italy, and settled in Aragon. They were surnamed the Horaces of Spain. Before he was twenty, Lupercio wrote three tragedies, which met with success, and which Cervantes praises highly in "Don Quixote:" too highly, indeed, for they are of the old school, wanting in verisimilitude and regularity, and not elevated by the merits of poetry. Philip III. appointed him historiographer of the kingdom of Aragon. Bartolomé, his junior by a year, was an ecclesiastic and also a poet. These brothers were residing at Saragossa, when the count, wishing to have them with him, offered Lupercio the place of secretary of state and war at Naples, and requested that his brother should accompany him. The count also confided to them the charge of choosing the persons to fulfil the under places in their office, and they, confiding in the counts taste, selected various poets for this purpose.

Cervantes was their friend; he had reason to hope that they would use their interest when arrived at Naples to advance him. But he was disappointed. He takes a gentle revenge in his "Voyage to Parnassus." Mercury bids him invite the two Argensolas to assist in the conquest of Parnassus, but Cervantes excuses himself, saying, "I am afraid they would not listen to me--although I am desirous to oblige in all things--since I have been told that my will and my eyes are both short-sighted, and my poverty-stricken appearance would ill suit such a journey. They have fulfilled none of the many promises they made me at parting. Much I hoped--for they promised much; but perhaps their new occupations have caused them to forget what they then said."[69]

Cervantes meanwhile had relinquished business, or nearly so: his means, considering the number of persons he maintained, were strait indeed: he felt that he was neglected, while others of far less talent basked in the favour of the court. But he did not hunt after patrons nor pension: he lived quiet and secluded, expecting nothing, repining at nothing--content, if not satisfied.

It is certainly strange that in those days, when it was considered a part of a noble's duty to protect and patronise men of letters, that Cervantes should have been thus passed over. Some men join a sort of querulousness and snarling independence to considerable self-esteem, which renders it difficult to oblige them. But there was no trace of anything of the sort in Cervantes--no trace of any quarrel or complaint; nor, though himself obscure, was his book unknown. There is a story told of Philip III., that he was one day standing in the balcony of his palace at Madrid, overlooking the Manzanares, and he observed a student walking on the banks of the river, reading, and interrupting himself every now and then with strange gesticulations and bursts of laughter. The king exclaimed, "Either that man is mad, or he is reading "Don Quixote.'" The courtiers around, eager to confirm their sovereign's sagacity, started off to ascertain the fact, and found indeed that the book the student held was "Don Quixote;" yet not one among them remembered to remind their sovereign that the author of that delightful work lived poor and forgotten.

In the licence to print the "Second Part of Don Quixote," another story is told, showing how the Spaniards themselves regarded the obscurity in which they suffered the author to live: it is related by the licentiate, Francisco Marquez Torres, master of the pages to the archbishop of Toledo, to whom the censorship of the work was intrusted. He relates that in 1615, an ambassador arrived at Madrid from Paris, whose object being complimentary, he was followed by a numerous suite of nobles and gentlemen of rank and education. Among others, the ambassador visited the archbishop of Toledo. On the 25th February, 1615, the archbishop returned the visit, accompanied by various churchmen and chaplains, and, among others, by the licentiate, Marquez Torres, himself. While the archbishop paid his visit, those of his suite conversed with the French gentlemen present, and they discussed the merits of various works of talent then popular, and in particular of the "Second Part of Don Quixote," then about to appear. When the foreign cavaliers heard the name of Cervantes, they all began to speak at once, and to declare the estimation in which he was held in France. Their praises were such, that the licentiate Marquez Torres offered to take them to the house of the author, that they might see and know him--an offer accepted with delight, while a thousand questions were asked concerning the age, profession, rank, and situation of Cervantes. The licentiate was obliged to confess that he was a gentleman and a soldier, but old and poor; and his reply so moved one of his audience, that he exclaimed, "Is it possible that Spain does not maintain such a man, in honour and comfort from the public purse?" While another, with less warmth of heart, though equal admiration, exclaimed, "If necessity obliges him to write, may he never be rich! for, being poor, he by his works enriches the world;"--words to comfort, with the hope of fame, one whose life was clouded by penury and neglect.

[Sidenote: 1608. Ætat. 61.]

We cannot help observing that the court and the nobles did not form the whole world. Cervantes had many dear, many well-informed and valued friends, and among these he could forget the carelessness of those who considered all reputation and prosperity to be inclosed within their magic circle; while in the case of Cervantes, it is proved that though neglected by them, the whole world rung with his fame and praise.

For some years Cervantes published nothing more. In 1608 he brought out a corrected edition of the "First Part of Don Quixote." He was employed, meanwhile, in a variety of works which appeared afterwards in quick succession, on which he employed himself at the same time. His "Voyage to Parnassus" peculiarly engaged his attention, but he feared that the publication, with its gentle attack on the Argensolas, might displease his kind patron, the count of Lemos. He therefore brought out first his "Twelve Tales" ("Novelas Exemplares") which raised yet higher his character as an author. These tales are dedicated in a few respectful lines to the count of Lemos; the preface to them is very interesting. Cervantes has been accused unjustly of vanity and boasting: of this he is innocent; but he had something of that feeling, the inherent quality of authors, which led him to dwell on his own idea and fortunes (what could be nearer, or better known, or more deeply felt by him?) the same that led Rousseau to make his confessions, and which when indulged in with good faith and without querulousness, sits well on a writer, and interests us in him. "I should be well content," he says, "to be excused this preface, and to give instead my portrait, such as it was painted by the famous don Juan de Jauregui: with this my ambition would be satisfied; and the curiosity would be gratified of those who desire to know what the countenance and person is of him who has dared bring before the world so many inventions; and below the portrait I would place these words: 'He whom you here see with a face resembling an eagle's with chesnut brown hair, smooth and open brow, vivacious eyes, a hooked yet well-proportioned nose; with a beard now silver, but which twenty years ago was golden; thick mustachios and small mouth; ill-formed teeth, of which but few remain; a person between two extremes, neither tall nor short; of sanguine complexion, rather fair than dark; somewhat heavy about the shoulders, and not very light of foot;--this, I say, is the face of the author of 'Galatea,' and of 'Don Quixote de la Mancha,'--he who, in imitation of Cæsar Caporal, the Perugian, made a voyage to Parnassus, and wrote other works, which wander lost, even with their master's name. He is usually called Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. He was for many years a soldier, and a captive for more than five, where he learned to bear adversity with patience. In the naval battle of Lepanto he lost his left hand by a shot from an arquebuse, a wound which may appear a deformity, but which he considers a beauty, having received it on the most memorable and noble event which past ages ever saw, or those to come can hope to witness--fighting under the victorious banners of the son of that lustre of war, Charles V., of happy memory."

There is certainly nothing boastful nor ungraceful in this--rather are we glad to find how Cervantes, old and poor, could dwell with complacency on past adversity, and cast the halo of glory round his misfortunes.

[Sidenote: 1614. Ætat. 67.]

These tales established more firmly than ever the high reputation of Cervantes, and he now ventured to publish his "Voyage to Parnassus;" and after this the least successful of his publications, or, rather, that which is the only failure among them--his volume of "Comedias y Entremeses," which he composed according to the new school introduced by Lope de Vega, but which were never acted. In his preface to this work he gives some account of the origin of the Spanish drama, and the amelioration that be, in his younger days, introduced, which has already been quoted. He goes on to say, "Called away by other occupations, I laid aside my pen, and meanwhile Lope de Vega, that prodigy of nature, appeared, and raised himself to the sovereignty of the drama. He vanquished and reduced under his dominion all writers of plays: he filled the world with dramas, excellently written and well conceived, and that in so great number, that ten thousand sheets of paper would not contain them; and, what is surprising, he has seen them all acted, or known that they were acted. All those who have wished to share the glory of his labours, collectively, have not written the half of what he alone has given forth. And when," he continues, "I returned to the old employment of my leisure, fancying that the age which echoed my praises still endured, I began again to write plays, but I found no birds in the accustomed nest--I mean, I found no manager who asked for them, although he was informed that they were written; I threw them, therefore, into the corner of a trunk, and condemned them to eternal silence. A bookseller then told me that he would have bought them, if an author of reputation had not told him, that my prose was worth something; but nothing could be expected from my verse. To confess the truth, these words mortified me deeply; without doubt, I am either much changed, or the age has arrived at a higher degree of perfection, against the usual course of things, for I have always heard past times praised. I re-read my comedies, as well as some interludes I had mingled with them, and I found that they were not so bad, but that I might bring them out from what an author calls darkness, to what others may, perhaps, name day. I grew angry, and sold them to the bookseller who now publishes them. He gave me a reasonable price, and I received the money without caring for the rebuffs of the actors. I wish that they were the best ever written; and if, dear reader, you find any thing good in them, I wish when you meet this ill-natured author, you would tell him to repent, and not to judge them so severely, since, after all, they contain no incongruities nor striking faults."

Unfortunately, the author was right--the pieces are very bad; so bad, that when Blas de Nasano reprinted them a century afterwards, he could find nothing better to say of them, than that they were purposely written badly, in ridicule of the extravagant plays then in vogue.

[Sidenote: 1615. Ætat. 68.]

Cervantes published another slight work in this year. The custom of poetic games (giustas poeticas) was still preserved in Spain, which had been instituted even from the time of John II. Pope Paul V. having, in 1614, canonised the famous Saint Theresa, her apotheosis was given as the subject for competition. Lope de Vega was named one of the judges. Cervantes entered the lists, and sent in an ode; it did not receive the prize, but it is published among those selected as the best, in the account written of the feasts which all Spain celebrated in honour of a native and illustrious saint.

Two works employed Cervantes at this time--"Persiles and Sigismunda," and the "Second Part of Don Quixote." He appears to have intended to bring out the former first, but the publication of Avellanada's "Don Quixote" caused him to hasten the appearance of the latter.

The name of the real author of this book is unknown; he assumed that of the licentiate Alonzo Fernandez de Avellanada, a native of Tordesillas. No plagiarism is more impudent and inexcusable. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza were the offspring and the property of Cervantes: to take these original and unparalleled creations out of his hands--to make them speak and act according to the fancy of another, and that while he was alive, and still occupied in adorning them with fresh deeds and thoughts, all his own, is a sort of theft no talent could excuse. Avellanada's "Don Quixote" is not destitute of talent; but it is impossible to read it--the mind of the reader is tormented by finding another knight, and another esquire, whom he is called to look upon as the same, but who are very different. The adventures are clever enough; but the soul of the actors is gone. Don Quixote is no longer the perfect gentleman, with feelings so noble, pure, and imaginative, and Sancho is a lout, whose talk is folly, without the salt of wit. Cervantes, heartily disgusted, and highly indignant, hastened to publish his continuation. In dedicating his comedies to the count of Lemos, at the commencement of 1615, he says, "Don Quixote has buckled oh his spurs, and is hastening to kiss the feet of your excellency. I am afraid he will arrive a little out of humour, because he lest his way, and was ill-treated at Tarragona: nevertheless, he has proved, upon examination, that he is not the hero of that story, but another who wished to look like him, but did not succeed."

In his dedication of the Second Part to the count of Lemos, he says, in not ungraceful allusion to the extent of his fame, while at the same time he covertly alludes to his expectation of being invited to Naples, "Many have told me to hurry it, to get rid for them of the disgust caused by another Quixote, who, under the name of the Second Part, has wandered through the world. And he who has shown himself most impatient is the great emperor of China, who a month ago wrote me a letter in Chinese, asking, or rather entreating me to send it for he was desirous of founding a college for the study of the Castilian language, and he wished "Don Quixote" to be the book read in it; at the same time, offering that I should be rector of the college: but I replied that I had not health to undertake so long a journey; and besides being ill, I was poor; and emperor for emperor, and monarch for monarch, there was the great count of Lemos at Naples, who assisted me as much as I wished, though he did not found colleges nor rectorships."

This was the last work that Cervantes published. He had finished "Persiles and Sigismunda," and meditated the "Second Part of Galatea," and two other works, whose subjects we cannot guess, though he has mentioned the titles ("Bernardo" and "Las Semanas del Jardin"); but of these no trace remains. He published the "Second Part of Don Quixote" at the end of 1615, and being then sixty-eight years of age, he was attacked by the malady which not long after caused his death. [Sidenote: 1616. Ætat. 69.] Hoping to find relief in the air of the country during spring, on the 2d of the following April he made an excursion to Esquivias, but, getting worse, he was obliged to return to Madrid. He narrates his journey back in his preface to "Persiles and Sigismunda:" and in this we find the only account we possess of his illness. "It happened; dear reader; that as two friends and I were returning from Esquivias--a place famous on many accounts;--in the first place for its illustrious families; and secondly for its excellent wines;--being arrived near Madrid, we heard, behind, a man on horseback, who was spurring his animal to its speed, and appeared to wish to get up to us, of which he gave proof soon after, calling out and begging us to stop; on which we reined up, and saw arrive a country-bred student, mounted on an ass, dressed in grey, with gaiters and round shoes, a sword and scabbard, and a smooth ruff with strings; true it is, that of these he had but two, so that his ruff was always falling on one side, and he was at great trouble to put it right. When he reached us, he said, 'Without doubt your Honours are seeking some office or pretend at court, from the archbishop of Toledo or the king, neither more nor less, to judge by the speed you make; for truly my ass has been counted the winner of the course more than once.' One of my companions replied, 'The horse of señor Miguel de Cervantes is the cause--he steps out so well.' Scarcely had the student heard the name of Cervantes than he threw himself off his ass, so that his bag and portmanteau fell to right and left--for he travelled with all this luggage--and rushing towards me, and seizing my left arm, exclaimed, 'Yes, yes! this is the able hand, the famous being, the delightful writer, and, finally, the joy of the muses!' As for me, hearing him accumulate praises so rapidly, I thought myself obliged in politeness to reply, and taking him round the neck in a manner which caused his ruff to fall off altogether, I said, f I am indeed Cervantes, sir; but I am not the joy of the muses, nor any of the fine things you say: but go back to your ass, mount again, and let us converse, for the short distance we have before us." The good student did as I desired; we reined in a little, and continued our journey at a more moderate pace. Meanwhile, my illness was mentioned, and the good student soon gave me over, saying, 'This is a dropsy, which not all the water of the ocean, could you turn it fresh and drink it, would cure. Señor Cervantes, drink moderately, and do not forget to eat, for thus you will be cured without the aid of other medicine.' 'Many others have told me the same thing,' replied; 'but I can no more leave off drinking till I am satisfied, than if I were born for this end only. My life is drawing to its close; and, if I may judge by the quickness of my pulse, it will cease to beat by next Sunday, and I shall cease to live. You have begun your acquaintance with me in an evil hour, since I have not time left to show my gratitude for the kindness you have displayed.' At this moment we arrived at the bridge of Toledo, by which I entered the town, while he followed the road of the bridge of Segovia. What after that happened to me fame will recount: my friends will publish it, and I shall be desirous to hear. I embraced him again; he made me offers of service, and, spurring his ass, left me as ill, as he was well disposed to pursue his journey. Nevertheless, he gave me an excellent subject for pleasantry; but all times are not alike. Perhaps the hour may come when I can join again this broken thread; and shall be able to say what here I leave out, and which I ought to say. Now, farewell pleasure! farewell joy! farewell, my many friends! I am about to die; and I leave you, desirous of meeting you soon again, happy, in another life."

Such is Cervantes's adieu to the world; self-possessed, and animated by that resigned and cheerful spirit which accompanied him through life. He wrote another farewell to his protector, the count of Lemos, in his dedication of this same work: it is dated 19th April, 1616. "I should be glad," he says, "not to apply to myself, as I must, the old verses which men formerly celebrated, that begin 'the foot already in the stirrup;' for with little alteration, I can say, that with my foot in the stirrup, and feeling the agonies of death, I write you, great lord, this letter. Yesterday extreme unction was administered me; to-day, I take up my pen; my time is short; my pains increase; my hopes fail; yet I wish to live to see you again in Spain; and perhaps the joy I should then feel would restore me to life. However, if I must less it, the will of heaven be done; but let your excellency at least be aware of my wish, and learn that you had in me an affectionate servant, who desired to show his service even beyond death." Four days after writing this dedication, Cervantes died, on the 23d of April, 1616, aged sixty-nine. In his will, he named his wife, and his neighbour, the licentiate Francisco Nuñez, his executors. He ordered that he should be buried in a convent of nuns of Trinity, founded four years before, in the Calle del Humilladero, where his daughter donna Isabel had a short time before taken the vows. No doubt this last wish of Cervantes was complied with; but in 1633, the nuns left the Calle del Humilladero, and went to inhabit another convent in the Calle de Cantaranas, and the place of his interment is thus forgotten; no stone, no tomb, no inscription marks the spot. We have to regret also the loss of his two portraits, painted by his friends Jauregui and Pacheco: the one we have is a copy made in the reign of Philip IV., and attributed to various painters; it resembles the description before quoted, which Cervantes gives of himself.

In calling to mind all the events of this great man's life, we are struck by the equanimity of temper preserved throughout. As a soldier, he showed courage; as a captive, fortitude and daring; as a man struggling with adversity, honesty, perseverance, and contentment. He speaks of himself as poor, but he never repines. In all the knowledge of the world displayed in "Don Quixote," there is no querulousness, no causticity, no bitterness: a noble enthusiasm animated him to his end. Despite his ridicule of books of chivalry, romantic in his own tastes, his last work, Persiles and Sigismunda, is more romantic than all. His genius, his imagination, his wit, his natural good spirits and affectionate heart, did, we must hope, stand in lieu of more worldly blessings, and rendered him as internally happy as they have rendered him admirable and praiseworthy to all men to the end of time.[70]

His life has been drawn to such a length, that there is no space for a very detailed account of his works; still something more must be said. His first publication, "Galatea," is beautiful in its spirit, interesting and pleasing in its details, but not original: as a work it is cast in the same mould as other pastorals that went before. Nor was Cervantes a poet. Many men have imagination, and can write verses, without being poets. Coleridge gives an admirable definition: "Good prose consists in good words in good places; poetry, in the best words in the best places," Cervantes had imagination and invention: the Spanish language offered great facility, and he wrote it always with purity; so that here and there we find lines and stanzas that are poetry, but, on the whole, there is a want of that concentration, severe taste, and perfect ear for harmony that form poetry.

Yet when we recur to the "Numantia," we find this sentence unjust, for there is poetry of conception and passion in the "Numantia" of the highest order; nor is it wanting in that of language. It has been mentioned that of the twenty or thirty plays which Cervantes says he wrote, soon after his marriage, "Numantia" and "El Trato de Argel" (Life in Algiers) alone remain. They are written on the simplest plan, though not on the Greek; they are without choruses, without entanglement of plot, sustained only by impassioned dialogue and situations of high-wrought interest. The "Numantia" is founded on the siege of that city, under Scipio Africanus, when the unfortunate inhabitants destroyed themselves, their wives and children, and their property, rather than fall, and let them fall into the conquerors' hands. It is divided into four acts: the first two are the least impressive, though containing scenes of extreme pathos, and well calculated to raise by degrees the interest of the reader to the horrors that ensue. Scipio, desirous of sparing the lives of his men, resolves to assault the city no more, but, digging a trench round it on all sides, except where the river flows, means to reduce it by famine. The Numantines determine to endure all to the last. They consult the gods, and dark auguries repel every hope: the dreadful pains of hunger creep about the city; and when two betrothed meet, and the lover asks the maiden but to stay awhile that he may gaze on her, he exclaims--

"What now? what stand'st thou mutely thinking, Thou of my thought the only treasure? _Lira._ I'm thinking how thy dream of pleasure And mine so fast away are sinking; It will not fall beneath the hand Of him who wastes our native land. For long, or e'er the war be o'er, My hapless life shall be no more. _Morandro._ Joy of my soul, what has thou said? _Lira._ That I am worn with hunger so, That quickly will th' o'erpowering woe For ever break my vital thread. What bridal rapture dost thou dream, From one at such a sad extreme? For, trust me, ere an hour be past, I fear I shall have breathed my last. My brother fainted yesterday, By wasting hunger overborne; And then my mother, all out-worn By hunger, slowly sunk away. And if my health can struggle yet With hunger's cruel power, in truth It is because my stronger youth Its wasting force hath better mat. But now so many a day hath pass'd, Since aught I've had its powers to strengthen; It can no more the conflict lengthen, But it must faint and fail at last. _Morandro._ Lira, dry thy weeping eyes; But ah! let mine, my love, the more Their overflowing rivers pour, Wailing thy wretched agonies. But though thou still art held in strife With hunger thus incessantly; Of hunger still thou shalt not die. So long as I retain my life. I offer here from you high wall, To leap o'er ditch and battlement; Thy death one instant to prevent, I fear not on mine own to fall. The bread the Roman eateth now, I'll snatch away and bear to thee; For, oh! 'tis worse than death to see, Lady, thy dreadful state of woe."[71]

After this the scenes of horror accumulate;--children crying to their mothers for bread; brothers lamenting over each other's suffering; and some repining at, and others nobly anticipating the hour when death and flames are to envelope all. Such scenes, denuded of their poetry, are mere horrors; but clothed, as Cervantes has clothed them, in the language of the affections, and of the loftier passions of the soul, the reader, even while trembling with the excitement, reads on and exults at last, when not a Numantine survives to grace Scipio's triumph. Nothing can be more truly national than the drama; and, as if fearful that a Spanish audience would feel too deeply the catastrophe, he introduces Spain, the river Duero, War, Sickness, and Famine, as allegorical personages, who, while they mourn over the present, prophesy the future triumphs of their country. Another merit of this play is one not usual in Spanish authors: it is of no more than the necessary length to develope its interest; there is no long spinning out, and except quite at the outset, before the poet had warmed to his subject, it has not a cold or superfluous line. It is indeed a monument worthy of Cervantes's genius, and proves the height to which he could soar, and brings him yet in closer resemblance to Shakspeare; showing that he could depict the grand and terrible, the pathetic and the deeply tragic, with the same master hand. It is said that this tragedy was acted during the frightful siege of Saragossa by the French in the last war; and the Spaniards found in the example of their forefathers, and in the spirit and genius of their greatest man, fresh inducements to resist: this is a triumph for Cervantes, worthy of him, and shows how truly and how well he could speak to the hearts of his countrymen.

In the comedy "Life in Algiers" there cannot be said to be any plot at all. Cervantes brought back from his captivity an intense horror of Christian suffering in Africa; and he had it much at heart to awaken in the minds of his countrymen, not only sympathy, but a spirit of charity, that would lead them to assist in the redemption of captives. He thus brings forward various pictures of suffering, such as would best move the hearts of the audience, and such as he himself had witnessed. Aurelio and Silvia, affianced lovers, are captives, and are respectively loved by Yusuf and Zara, the Moors who own them. In the old Spanish style, feelings are personified and brought on the stage. Fatima, Zara's confidant, seeks by incantations to bend Aurelio to her mistress's will. She is told by a Fury, that such power cannot be exercised over a Christian, but Necessity and Occasion are sent to move him by the suggestions they instil by whispers, and which he echoes as his own thoughts. He almost falls into the snare they present by filling his mind with prospects of ease and pleasure, in exchange for the hardships he undergoes; but he resists the temptation, and is finally set free with Silvia. Besides, these, we have the picture of two captives, who escape and cross the desert to Oran, as Cervantes had once schemed to do himself. One of them appears worn and famished--willing to return to captivity so to avoid death: he prays to the Virgin, and a lion is sent, who guards and guides him on his darksome solitary way. To rouse still more the compassion of the audience, there is one scene where the public crier comes on to sell a mother and father, and two children: the elder one has a sense of his situation and of the trials he is to expect with firmness; the younger knows nothing beyond his fear at being tern from his mother's side. A merchant buys the younger, and bids him come with him.

"_Juan._ I cannot leave my mother, sir, to go With others.

_Mother._ Go, my child--ah! mine no more, But his who buys thee.

_Juan._ Mother dear, dost thou Desert me?

_Mother._ Heaven! How pitiless thou art!

_Merchant._ Come, child, come!

_Juan._ Brother, let's go together.

_Francisco._ It is not in my choice--may heaven go with thee!

_Mother._ Remember, oh, my treasure and my joy, Thy God!

_Juan._ Where do they take me without you, My father!--my dear mother!

_Mother._ Sir, permit For one brief moment that I speak to my Poor child--short will the satisfaction be, Long, endless sorrow following close behind.

_Merchant._ Say what thou wilt; 'tis the last time thou canst.

_Mother._ Alas! it is the first that e'er I felt Such woe.

_Juan._ Mother, keep me with thee; Suffer me not to go, I know not where.

_Mother._ Fortune has, since I bore thee, my sweet child, Hidden her face--the heavens are dark--the sea And the wild winds combine for my dismay; The very elements our enemies! Thou knowest not thy misery, although Thou art its victim--and such ignorance Is happiness for thee! My only love, Since to see thee no more I am allow'd, I pray thee never to forget to seek The favour of the Virgin in thy prayers-- The queen of goodness she--of grace and hope She can unloose thy chain, and set thee free.

_Aydar._ Hark to the Christian what advice she gives! Thoud'st have him lost as thee, false infidel!

_Juan._ My mother, let me stay--let not these Moors Take me away.

_Mother._ My treasures go with thee.

_Juan._ In faith, I fear these men!

_Mother._ But I more fear Thou wilt forget thy God, me and thyself, When thou art gone: thy tender years are such, That thou wilt lose thy faith amidst this race Of infidels--teachers of lies.

_Crier._ Silence! And fear, old wicked woman, that thy head Pay for thy tongue!"

At the end of the play, Juan is seduced by fine clothes and sweetmeats to become a Mahometan. When we think of the Spanish horror of renegades, and its fierce punishment, we may imagine the effect that such scenes, brought vividly before them, must have had. The play ends with the arrival of a vessel, with a friar on board, charged with money to redeem the captives, and the universal joy the Christians feel; Cervantes had felt such himself, and well could paint it. The whole play, though without plot, and rendered wild and strange by the introduction of allegorical personages, yet is full of the interest of pathetic situations and natural feelings, simply, but vividly represented; such doubtless, roused every sentiment of horror and compassion, and even vengeance in a Spanish audience. In some respects we feel otherwise; and when one of the captives relates the cruel death of a priest burnt by slow fire, by the Moors, in retaliation of a Moor burnt by the inquisition, our indignation is rather levelled against that nefarious institution, which, unprovoked, punished those who adhered to the faith of their fathers, and filled the whole world with abhorrence for its name. Such, Cervantes could not feel; and in reading his works, and those of all his countrymen, nothing jars with our feelings so much as the praise ever given to the most savage cruelties of the Dominicans, and the merciless reprobation expressed towards those who dared revenge their wrongs.

From the publication of these works to "Don Quixote," what a gap! He would seem to have lived as an unlighted candle--suddenly, a spark touches the wick, and it burst into a flame. "Don Quixote" is perfect in all its parts. The first conception is admirable. The idea of the crazed old gentleman who nourished himself in the perusal of romances till he wanted to be the hero of one, is true to the very bare truth of nature, and how has he followed it out? Don Quixote is as courageous, noble, princely, and virtuous as the greatest of the men whom he imitates: had he attempted the career of knight errantry, and afterwards shrunk from the consequent hardships, he had been a crazy man, and no more; but meeting all and bearing all with courage and equanimity, he really becomes the hero he desired to be. Any one suffering from calamities would gladly have recourse to him for help, assured of his resolution and disinterestedness, and thus Cervantes shows the excellence and perfection of his genius. The second part is conceived in a different spirit from the first; and to relish it as it deserves, we must enter into the circumstances connected with it. Cervantes was desirous of not repeating himself. There is less extravagance, less of actual insanity on the part of the hero. He no longer mistakes an inn for a castle, nor a flock of sheep for an army. He sees things as they are, although he is equally expert in giving them a colouring suited to his madness. This, however, renders the second part less entertaining to the general reader, less original, less brilliant; but it is more philosophic, more full of the author himself: it shows the deep sagacity of Cervantes, and his perfect knowledge of the human heart. Its drawback, for the second part is not as perfect as the first, consists in the unworthy tricks of the duchess--very different from the benevolent disguise of the princess Micomicona, the deceptions of this great lady are at once vulgar and cruel.

The greatest men have looked on "Don Quixote" as the best book that ever was written. Godwin said, "At twenty, I thought 'Don Quixote' laughable--at forty, I thought it clever--now, near sixty, I look upon it as the most admirable book in the whole world." In Coleridge's "Literary Remains," there are some admirable remarks on "Don Quixote;" they are too long to be inserted here, but I cannot refrain from quoting the contrast he draws between the Don and Sancho Panza. He says, "Don Quixote grows at length to be a man out of his wits; his understanding is deranged; and hence, without the least deviation from the truth of nature, without losing the least trait of personal individuality, he becomes a substantial living allegory, or personification of the reason and moral sense divested of the judgment and understanding. Sancho is the converse. He is the common sense without reason or imagination; and Cervantes not only shows the excellence and power of reason in Don Quixote, but in both him and Sancho the mischiefs resulting from a severance of the two main constituents of sound intellectual and moral action. Put him and his master together, and they form a perfect intellect; but they are separated and without cement: and hence, each having need of the other for its whole completeness, each has at times a mastery over the other; for the common sense, though it may see the practical inapplicability of the dictates of the imagination of abstract reason, yet cannot help submitting to them. These two characters possess the world--alternately and interchangeably the cheater and the cheated. To impersonate them, and to combine the permanent with the individual, is one of the highest creations of genius, and has been achieved by Cervantes and Shakspeare almost alone."

Of the "Novellas," or tales of Cervantes, I had intended to give a detail, but have no space; they are among the best of his works. They cannot compete with the best of Boccaccio: they have not his energy of passion--his soul-melting tenderness--his tragic power and matchless grace; but the tales of Cervantes are full of interest and amusement: they possess the merit also of being perfectly moral; he calls them himself Novellas Exemplares, and there is not a word that need be slurred over or omitted. It is strange also that as afterwards the intrigue of his comedies was so bad, that of some of his stories is so good, that Beaumont and Fletcher--than whom no dramatists better understood the art of fabricating plays--have adopted two, ("La Señora Cornelia" and "Las Dos Doncellas"), and so adopted them as to follow them line for line, and scene by scene. There is a very beautiful interview in "Las Dos Doncellas," between a cavalier and a lady at night, by the sea-shore; Beaumont and Fletcher have but translated and versified this, and it stands among the most effective of their scenes.[72]

The "Voyage to Parnassus" has the inherent Spanish defect of length, otherwise it has great merit: the ridicule is playful--the machinery poetic--the story well adapted for burlesque. There had been a poem, written on the subject of a voyage to Parnassus, by Cezare Caporali--an Italian of Perugia. Cervantes begins his poem by mentioning the return of the Italian, and how he, who ever desired to deserve the name of poet, resolved to follow his example. In playful derision of his poverty, he describes his departure: a piece of bread and a cheese in his wallet, were all his provision--"light to carry, and useful for the voyage and then he bids adieu to his lowly roof--"Adieu to Madrid--adieu to its fountains, which distil ambrosia and nectar--to its prado--to its society--to the abodes of pleasure and deceit." He arrives at Carthagena, and sees Mercury, who invites him to embark on board a boat, and to come to assist in the defence of Parnassus, which had been attacked by a host of poetasters. The skiff is fancifully described:--

And lo! of verses framed, the bark,[73] From the maintop to water mark, Without a word of prose betwixt; The upper decks were glosses mix'd-- A hodge-podge badly put together, Ill-married all with one another:-- And of romances form'd, the crew, A daring people glad to do The wildest acts, however fierce. The poop was made of other verse: 'Twas form'd of sonnets, each one rare, Written all with the nicest care. Two tercets, bold as muse could write, The gunnels framed from left to right, And gave free scope unto the oar. The gangway's length was measured o'er By elegies most sad and long, More apt for tears than gladsome song. The mast that rose unto the sky An ode embodied, long and dry, Tarr'd o'er with songs of dreary length, So to ensure its weight and strength. And all the yards that ran across Were burthens harsh--you're at no loss Their hard material to find: The parrel creaking to the wind, Of redondillas gay and free; So that more easy it might be. The ropes and tackle--rigging all-- Of seguidillas light and small, Each twined with fancies gay and fickle, The which the soul are apt to tickle; The thwarts, of stanzas staunch and strong, Planks to support a world of song; While the pennants, flying lightly, Love songs framed so gay and sprightly. Sestinas grave, and blank verse ready, Shaped the keel both sharp and steady; That like a duck the bark might swim, And o'er the waters lightly skim.