He himself speaks more modestly. "What," he says, in his preface to "Don Quixote," "could my barren and uncultivated understanding engender except the history of an offspring, dry, tough, and whimsical, and full of various fancies which had never entered the imagination of another?--like one born in prison, where every discomfort dwells, and every odious sound has birth." With this we turn to the book itself, and it seems to us that if Cervantes had never written more than the first chapter, his genius and originality had been acknowledged by all. There is so much life, such minute yet clear and characteristic painting--such an outset, promising so much, and in itself performing so much--that, but for its wisdom, it seems written by a man who had never known a check nor care. He must have felt happy while he wrote it; though the excitement of composition brings with it a reaction which, more than any other exercise of the brain, demands amusement and change. To turn exhausted from the written page, and find solitude and a dungeon walls about him, might well make him feel that imagination sterile, which was indeed exhausted by the very fertility and beauty of its creations. [Sidenote: 1604. Ætat. 57.] In 1604, Cervantes returned to what in Spain is called the court, that is, the town in which the monarch resided. He had left it thirteen years before, in hopes of earning a subsistence by the employment offered him. He had lived in poverty, and experienced a variety of disasters. During this period he had never thought of obtaining an income through authorship. Now he had with him that which in truth has proved to be his passport to immortality, and the admiration of the world. We may believe that an innate sense of the merit of his work led him to consider that he was not too sanguine in hoping thence to derive such profit and reputation as would rescue him from the distresses to which he had hitherto been the victim. But from first to last, in a worldly view, Cervantes was born to disappointment. His first attempt was to introduce himself to the notice of the duke of Lerma, the "Atlas of the monarchy," as he calls him. The haughty favourite received him with disdain; and Cervantes, not less proud, renounced at once the humiliating task of seeking his favour.