The prizes it must be
admitted were very tempting: first, a silver pitcher; second, eight
yards of camlet; and third, a pair of silk stockings. We hope
Cervantes's poem was not the best. We would rather see him carry home
the stuff for a new cloak and pourpoint, or even those very attractive
silk stockings for his shrunk shank, than that silver pitcher which he
was too Castilian ever to turn to any sensible use. The poems are
published in a compendium of the time, without indicating the successful
ones; and that of Cervantes contained these lines, which would seem
hazardous in this colder age, but which then were greatly admired:--
"Breaking all bolts and bars,
Comes the Divine One, sailing from the stars,
Full in thy sight to dwell:
And those who seek him, shortening the road,
Come to thy blest abode,
And find him in thy heart or in thy cell."
The anti-climax is the poet's, and not mine.
He knew he was nearing his end, but worked desperately to retrieve the
lost years of his youth, and leave the world some testimony of his
powers. He was able to finish and publish the Second Part of Quixote,
and to give the last touches of the file to his favorite work, the long
pondered and cherished Persiles. This, he assures Count Lemos, will be
either the best or the worst work ever produced by mortal man, and he
quickly adds that it will not be the worst. The terrible disease gains
upon him, laying its cold hand on his heart.
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