at the clank of the Ottoman chains, was that of rising upon their
tyrants and destroying them in the very stronghold of their cruelty
and their power.

There is the best authority for believing that, if the good fortune of
Cervantes had been equal to his courage, perseverance, and skill, the
city of Algiers would have been taken by the Christians; for his bold
and resolute project aimed at no less a result. Moreover, if he had
not been sold and betrayed by those who undertook to assist him in his
grand and noble undertaking--to liberate the captives of so many
lands--his own captivity might have proved a fortunate event.

At last Cervantes returned to Spain, after five years' slavery at
Algiers. He returned fired with animosity against the Moors, and
filled with ardent sympathy for those Christians still in slavery.
Thus his comedy of "El Trato de Argel, Los Banos de Argel," his tale
of the Captive in "Don Quixote," and that of the Generous Lover, were
not mere literary works, but charitable endeavors to serve the
Christian captives, and to excite the public sympathy in their favor.
I have dwelt fully on this extraordinary experience of Cervantes, an
experience which brought him into direct contact with the lowest
classes and the elementary passions of mankind, with a view of showing
how profound and terrible was his knowledge of human character and
human passion.

Before producing his immortal masterpiece, "Don Quixote," Cervantes
wrote a great number of plays which were not successful. When
Cervantes speaks of his own dramatic works in his old age, his
simplicity and gayety are very touching, because he was evidently
deeply wounded at the neglect of his plays.

"Some years ago," he says, "I returned to the ancient occupation of my
leisure hours; and, imagining that the age had not passed away in
which I used to hear the sound of praise, I began to write comedies.
The birds, however, had flown from their nest. I could find no manager
to ask for my plays, though they knew that I had written them. I
threw them, therefore, into the corner of a trunk, and condemned them
to obscurity. A bookseller then told me that he would have bought them
from me, had he not been told by a celebrated author that much
dependence might be placed upon my prose, but not upon my poetry. To
say the truth, this information mortified me much. I said to myself,
'Cervantes, you are certainly either changed, or the world, contrary
to its custo