We must all feel that it would never have done to have begun with these passages; but long before the 191st page has been reached, Cellini has retreated into his own atmosphere, and the scales of justice have been hopelessly tampered with.

That such a man as this encountered suffering in the course of his life should be matter for satisfaction to every well-regulated mind; but somehow or other, you find yourself pitying the fellow as he narrates the hardships he endured in the Castle of St. Angelo.  He is so symmetrical a rascal!  Just hear him! listen to what he says well on in the second volume, after the little incidents already quoted:—­

“Having at length recovered my strength and vigor, after I had composed myself and resumed my cheerfulness of mind, I continued to read my Bible, and so accustomed my eyes to that darkness, that though I was at first able to read only an hour and a half, I could at length read three hours.  I then reflected on the wonderful power of the Almighty upon the hearts of simple men, who had carried their enthusiasm so far as to believe firmly that God would indulge them in all they wished for; and I promised myself the assistance of the Most High, as well through His mercy as on account of my innocence.  Thus turning constantly to the Supreme Being, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in silent meditation on the divine goodness, I was totally engrossed by these heavenly reflections, and came to take such delight in pious meditations that I no longer thought of past misfortunes.  On the contrary, I was all day long singing psalms and many other compositions of mine, in which I celebrated and praised the Deity.”

Thus torn from their context, these passages may seem to supply the best possible falsification of the previous statement that Cellini told the truth about himself.  Judged by these passages alone, he may appear a hypocrite of an unusually odious description.  But it is only necessary to read his book to dispel that notion.  He tells lies about other people; he repeats long conversations, sounding his own praises, during which, as his own narrative shows, he was not present; he exaggerates his own exploits, his sufferings—­even, it may be, his crimes:  but when we lay down his book, we feel we are saying good-by to a man whom we know.

He has introduced himself to us, and though doubtless we prefer saints to sinners, we may be forgiven for liking the company of a live rogue better than that of the lay-figures and empty clock-cases labeled with distinguished names, who are to be found doing duty for men in the works of our standard historians.  What would we not give to know Julius Caesar one-half as well as we know this outrageous rascal?  The saints of the earth, too, how shadowy they are!  Which of them do we really know?  Excepting one or two ancient and modern Quietists, there is hardly one amongst the whole number who being dead yet speaketh.  Their memoirs far too often only reveal to us a hazy something, certainly not recognizable as a man.  This is generally the fault of their editors, who, though men themselves, confine their editorial duties to going up and down the diaries and papers of the departed saint, and obliterating all human touches.  This they do for the “better prevention of scandals”; and one cannot deny that they attain their end, though they pay dearly for it.