should admire a thief per se, and, as to Mr. Howship, it is well known that he makes war upon all ulcers; and, without suffering himself to be seduced by their charms, endeavors to banish them from the county of Middlesex.  But the truth is, that, however objectionable per se, yet, relatively to others of their class, both a thief and an ulcer may have infinite degrees of merit.  They are both imperfections, it is true; but to be imperfect being their essence, the very greatness of their imperfection becomes their perfection. Spartam nactus es, hunc exorna.  A thief like Autolycus or Mr. Barrington, and a grim phagedaenic ulcer, superbly defined, and running regularly through all its natural stages, may no less justly be regarded as ideals after their kind, than the most faultless moss-rose amongst flowers, in its progress from bud to “bright consummate flower;” or, amongst human flowers, the most magnificent young female, apparelled in the pomp of womanhood.  And thus not only the ideal of an inkstand may be imagined, (as Mr. Coleridge demonstrated in his celebrated correspondence with Mr. Blackwood,) in which, by the way, there is not so much, because an inkstand is a laudable sort of thing, and a valuable member of society; but even imperfection itself may have its ideal or perfect state.

Really, gentlemen, I beg pardon for so much philosophy at one time, and now let me apply it.  When a murder is in the paulo-post-futurum tense, and a rumor of it comes to our ears, by all means let us treat it morally.  But suppose it over and done, and that you can say of it,[Greek:  Tetelesai], or (in that adamantine molossus of Medea) [Greek:  eirzasai]; suppose the poor murdered man to be out of his pain, and the rascal that did it off like a shot, nobody knows whither; suppose, lastly, that we have done our best, by putting out our legs to trip up the fellow in his flight, but all to no purpose—­“abiit, evasit,” &c.—­why, then, I say, what’s the use of any more virtue?  Enough has been given to morality; now comes the turn of Taste and the Fine Arts.  A sad thing it was, no doubt, very sad; but we can’t mend it.  Therefore let us make the best of a bad matter; and, as it is impossible to hammer anything out of it for moral purposes, let us treat it aesthetically, and see if it will turn to account in that way.  Such is the logic of a sensible man, and what follows?  We dry up our tears, and have the satisfaction, perhaps, to discover that a transaction, which, morally considered, was shocking, and without a leg to stand upon, when tried by principles of Taste, turns out to be a very meritorious performance.  Thus all the world is pleased; the old proverb is justified, that it is an ill wind which blows nobody good; the amateur, from looking bilious and sulky, by too close an attention to virtue, begins to pick up his crumbs, and general hilarity prevails.  Virtue has had her day; and henceforward, Vertu and Connoisseurship have leave to provide for themselves.  Upon this principle, gentlemen, I propose to guide your studies, from Cain to Mr. Thurtell.  Through this great gallery of murder, therefore, together let us wander hand in hand, in delighted admiration, while I endeavor to point your attention to the objects of profitable criticism.