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.