LONDON JOURNAL. TO ASSIST THE INQUIRING, ANIMATE THE STRUGGLING, AND SYMPATHIZE WITH ALL. WEDNESDAY, DEC. 17, 1834. NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC. IMPROVEMENTS OF THE LONDON JOURNAL' FOR THE ENSUING YEAR. As all Periodicals, at the commencement of a new year, must desire to obtain fresh readers, and show regard to old ones, by as much improvement or novelty as they can devise, and as we have no inclination to be behind-hand with our contemporaries in evincing either our zeal or gratitude, we hereby give a fortaste of our proper Journal pretensions, by setting modesty utterly aside; and do fairly acknowledge, that on Wednesday, the 7th of January next, we mean to be extremely brilliant and astonishing It is of no use to mince the matter. If we have been good hitherto, we mean to be twenty-fold better then. If people (particularly those of a lofty five-shilling turn of mind) have been hitherto astonished how we could sell our weekly stores of knowledge and entertainment for the unmentionable sum of three half-pence, they shall then be amazed beyond endurance. Men shall be found, with our Journal in their hands, staring and immoveable, under peril of a locked-jaw; while the fair sex, with a sweeter access of frenzy, and agreeably to their more patient endurance of a transport, yet not knowing withal how to express their satisfaction, shall be tempted literally to devour our pages,-perhaps in a sandwich, as Miss Catharine Fisher, out of a less exalted feeling, did the bank-note. Good heavens! if all our contemporaries improve as we do, what a periodical literature we shall have! The old Gentleman's Magazine,' their father, will be so very old and very gentlemanly, that nothing will ever have been seen so venerable, not even his churches. 'Blackwood' will be so intense, that there will be no 6 distinguishing him from the woods and fountains he speaks of. His magazine, coming to us, overshadowing, will be like a visit from the clouds and mountain tops of the primeval world; or of Greece with all its isles. 'Tait' and the 'Monthly Repository' will blow such notes of advancement, that we shall all of a sudden be living in the twenty-first century, all thriving and merry, our days cut beautifully in two betwixt work and leisure. Fraser' will bring English orthodoxy so well acquainted with Irish and French vivacity, that all three shall be astonished at finding themselves shaking hands over Rabelais'' Oracle of the Bottle.' The New Monthly' shall be so very polite and "distingué," that men shall put a leaf of it into their button holes instead of myrtle. The Metropolitan' shall begin a new novel once a month, and render us so jolly and maritime that, like the drinkers in the Naufragium Joculare,' we shall take our room for a ship, and begin tossing the furniture out of window to lighten her. Then the orthodox Dublin University Magazine' shall more and more delight the "candid reader" by praising Whigs who write about forest-trees, and Radicals who can relish claret. All war, in short, shall become, in a manner, all peace,—the war being only a sort of robust joviality,-a Donny-brook fair, -to relish the peace with; and peaceful magazines shall, of course, have a prodigious deal to do. Mr Loudon, with his 'Architectural,' Gardening,' and 'Naturalist's' Magazines, shall build all our houses for us, plant all our gardens, and illustrate all our fields. [From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street.] No. 38. By the way, what have we done, that the Monthly Repository' has not been sent us, ever since we made an extract from it? And how is it, that 'Tait' and 'Blackwood' are not sent, as they used to be when we wrote in another Journal? Our universalities, we are sure, do not offend them. They are too much in earnest themselves. And, agreeably to the insolence of our companionship, we must remind them of an anecdote in Boswell. Johnson dined one day in company with Wilkes, at Dilly's, the bookseller in the Poultry. There was a coldness at first; but wine, wit, and natural humanity, fused all parties together before dinner was over; and Wilkes, leaning back in his chair, and speaking to some one behind Johnson's back, said, in a stage-whisper, "I understand Dr Johnson has written a very fine book (the Lives of the Poets'); but I am a poor patriot, and have not "Mr Dilly," said Johnson, smiling with benignity, (as Boswell says,) "be good enough to send a copy of the Lives' to Mr Wilkes." Now we have no ambition to compare ourselves with Wilkes, except inasmuch as he desired the public welfare (if he did); but we may be allowed, without any immodesty, to measure our inability to buy books been able to see it." with an Alderman and Member of Parliament; and "candid readers" are deserving the consideration of good editors. To return to our subject ;-we propose, in our next year's Journal, in addition to most of the features of the year past, to give regular notices of the Fine Arts and Music; a Memoir (every week) of some eminent person, taken from some good author; regular extracts from good books of Travels, so that the reader may go round the world with us in the course of the twelvemonth; specimens, also (we hope) of the best English Poets; and a sprinkle of more original matter, generally. And the proprietors of Mr Hazlitt's Characters of Shakspeare's Plays' (which are out of print) have kindly permitted us to promise one of them for every successive week, till the series be completed. SHAKSPEARE AND CHRISTMAS, AND MR LANDOR'S NEW WORK. SHAKSPEARE and Christmas! How naturally the idea of Shakspeare can be made to associate itself with anything which is worth mention! Christmas is coming; Shakspeare is always at hand; a man of genius has just written a book upon him; and the two ideas, or all three, fall as naturally and seasonably together, as festivity, and heart and soul. So you may put together "Shakspeare and May," or "Shakspeare and June," and twenty passages start into your memory about spring and violets. Or you may say Shakspeare and Love," and you are in the midst of a bevy of bright damsels, as sweet as rosebuds; or "Shakspeare and Death," and all graves, and thoughts of graves, are before you; or "Shakspeare and Life," and you have the whole world of youth, and spirit, and Hotspur, and life itself; or you may say even "Shakspeare and Hate," and he will say all that can be said for hate, as well as against it, till you shall take Shylock himself into your Christian arms, and tears shall make you of one faith. As it is true that "extremes meet," so do we verily hold that extreme greatness and extreme goodness PRICE THREE HALFPEnce. (as far as man can have either) meet in the same individual; and being extremely good, Shakspeare, for all his greatness, or rather, by reason of it, must needs have been a good fellow; and being a good fellow, it follows that he must have been a good hand at Christmas. There have, undoubtedly, been bad great men; but, inasmuch as they were bad, they were not great. Their greatness was not intire. There was a great piece of it omitted. They had heads, legs, and arms, but they wanted hearts; and thus were not whole men. Besides, men of this kind, like Polyphemus, have but one eye; for bad men see but half; and their palates are poor, one-tasted things, callous except to great excitements. They could not even partake of a dinner off a cut-apple with a child, without calling to mind their dignity, or their brandy, or some such thing; and how could such unhappy persons have a true relish of Christmas? Now Shakspeare, who manifestly saw everything that could be seen, and relished everything that had a taste, great and small, could not, and would not, (God and good health willing) have refused to join any festivity that had a heart in it; and he could neither have been the man he was, nor the poet he was, nor the "player-man" he was, nor have led the life he did, nor have had such good-humoured knowledge of country and town pastimes, of sheep-shearings, and taverns, and "good men's feasts," and Falstaff, and Sir Toby, and Twelfth-Night (mark you that!)—if he had not been in request at Christmas, and (to use his own phrase) often "set the table in a roar." Nobody talks so well of such things, without having had a relishing experience of them; and there is reason to believe that, like the thoroughly-discerning man he was, Shakspeare, through all that he had seen, had come to the conclusion that there was nothing better on earth than love and good-fellowship; for this is not only the conclusion, abstractedly speaking, which the logic of the question might bring him to, but it is understood, and is most highly credible, that TwelfthNight, with Viola and Christina in it, was the last play he wrote. But we must hasten, this week, to let a writer speak of Shakspeare, who has spoken of him as writer has never yet spoken in England, and we have had eloquent utterers to that matter too; nay, he has dared to make Shakspeare himself speak, and shown that he had a right to dare it. It was said by a candid saint, in a fit of the phraseology of this world, “Deuce take those who have said our good things before us!" (Pereant male qui ante nos nostra dixerunt.) We add, Deuce take those who quoted the saying before us;-but above all, Deuce take him who wrote the article on Mr Landor's book (for it is of this book we speak) in the Examiner' of the week before last:-and Deuce particularly take him for having said our good things so well, that it becomes a matter of modesty with us not even to claim them. Hard is it to practise that saintly virtue of candour; but out the truth must come, and the truth is, that the nicety of the critical feeling in that article is worthy of the book it criticises; and after what we have said of the book, the reader may judge of its review. Our only comfort is, as all our friends will testify to whom we spoke of the book, that we hailed and trumpeted it to every body in private the moment we got it, and before we had time to speak of it publicly. So if two men think alike upon the general merits of a subject, and one of them anticipates the other, we cannot help it; we shall simply proceed to act as our friend the saint would have done on the like occasion, and with an impudence becoming our love and veracity (for extremes meet, and there is nothing so daring as your perfect inno cence), extract the whole of the article into our co lumns. Yes, the whole; for though the Exami ner' is a paper as celebrated as-it is witty and argumentative, yet its price (moderate as it is,) and its partizanship (however sincere) may keep it out of hands into which the LONDON JOURNAL goes. The article, therefore, will have additional readers; those who have read it before will be glad to read it again (we beg to say that we were the inventors of that useful piece of assertion); and, finally, we cannot help taking every bit of it for our own satisfaction. We might omit the first two paragraphs, but there is capital talk about Shakspeare in them, and this present unworthy article of ours is about Shakspeare as well as Mr Landor. We have omitted only one passage, of a few lines; because, however justifiable it is in its own place, it would not be equally so in a paper which professes to be a neutral ground, set apart from everything hostile or controversial. Next week, we shall give some extracts from Mr Landor's book, which are not to be found in the article of our contemporary. It It THIS is a book of remarkable genius-an honour to the age. High wit, imagination, and the sweetest pathos, are its least distinguished characteristics. is steeped in the deepest waters of humanity. would have been called a gentle book when that term meant all that was noble as well as mild and wise. It deserves to have its dwelling-place near the loved and everlasting name of Shakspeare, and we are very sure that posterity will find it there. For ourselves, we have adopted it as the faithful record of some authentic pages in the life of the young poet. Of these, we have "alas! too few"and we cannot see why so excellent a romance should not stand for a piece of reality. How strange it is that so little should be known of the personal history of Shakspeare! Was it that the radiance of his genius quenched the paler light of his life? Had his contemporaries in literature lost their sense of his personal identity in the universal character of his fame? Ben Jonson's learning, the weight of Marlowe's mighty line, the dark gloom of Ford, streaked with its moonlight gleams of pathos, the domestic prose-poetry of Heywood, the terrible graces of Webster and of Decker, the earnestness and precision of Middleton, the comprehensive thought of Massinger, and the sweetness of Fletcher-all these have an individual character, which is stamped on the admiring love with which we regard the memories of the men. They never published anything that did not remind each other of their own personal existNot so with Shakspeare. When Falstaff succeeded his Hamlet, and Lear followed Falstaff, who ever thought of him? He might be seen, we presume, at the Globe or the Mermaid; he might win hearts there by his flowing facility or wit or fancyby his brave notions and gentle expressions; but never, we dare be sworn, did he excite there, or in his time, a tithe of the reverent and loving admiration we pay to the Creator of a World. His genius was, in short, too large and universal to be referred to himself, sitting in the common ranks of men. His companions never could associate them-never dreamt of them as of mutual and reciprocating interest-and never fancied, therefore, that a later posterity would. ence. liest duties; there we follow him through the con, flicts of duty and passion, and through a sea of trou bles, discontents, and sorrows; there we find that the web of his life, too, was a mingled yarn, and that he, the so potent master, at whose feet the world of spirits and of nature laid their richest treasures, and to whom all the sources of truth and beauty and delight were open, could yet be baffled by the unkindness of his fellow-men could see them join. against him with the "spite of fortune;" and, troubled and despairing, "desiring this man's art, and that man's scope"-could, at last, in the bitterness of his anguish, "look upon himself, and curse his fate!" But, for all that, what a humane and generous world is that of Shakspeare! He, who felt its wrongs, felt also the allowances to be made for them. He knew, let what would betide, that "beautiful usages were remaining still, kinder affections, radiant hopes, and ardent aspirations." He knew that "there is in the blood of man, as in the blood of animals, that which giveth the temper and disposition, and that these require nurture and culture." He chose the nobler part, therefore, of cherishing and cultivating these; and for him, in grief or in gladness, we are surely always kinder and happier. The words we have quoted are words from the volume before us. They call us back to it from our dreams of Shakspeare. to be. This book is something better than a dream. Concealed in the dress of fiction, its purpose is the assertion of truth. A most exalted moral aim is the " heart of its mystery." The youth, William Shakspeare, is brought before Sir Thomas Lucy on the charge of deer-stealing. The persons present at the examination are the knight's chaplain, Silas Gough his clerk, the quaint and trustworthy Ephraim Barnett, whose report the book purports and two countrymen, who bear witness against Shakspeare. The whole conduct of the thing is admirable. We have Sir Thomas Lucy before us in his large, comfortable, easy chair, a portly theologian, and, in his own conceit, a great poet, very stately at first, but gradually relaxing under the influence of the wonderful culprit he has before him, until, at last-fairly subdued by the stream of wit, eloquence, poetry, reason, and religion, poured out upon him by the stealer of his deer -he lies back in his chair in his very easiest attitude, opens his ears to their widest stretch, and tells "honest Willy" to "go on" with his sermons. He throws in a word or two here and there to secure his own dignity and superiority, but it is easy to see who has the upper hand. He is led by the nose, by the eyes, and by the ears-no faculty of him can withstand the fascination of Shakspeare! "I am not ashamed to avouch that it goeth against me to hang this young fellow, richly as the offence in its own nature doth deserve it, he talketh so reasonably; not indeed so reasonably, but so like unto what a reasonable man may listen to and reflect on. There is so much, too, of compassion for others in hard cases, and something so very near in semblance to innocence itself in that airy swing of light-heartedness about him. I cannot fix my eyes (as one would say) on the shifting and sudden shade-andshine, which cometh back to me, do what I will, and mazes me in a manner, and blinks me." This exquisite aside is addressed to his chaplain; but Sir Silas Gough is an ill-natured parson who doesn't like Shakspeare's religion, who doesn't "relish such mutton-broth divinity, making him sick in order to settle his stomach," who somewhat "smokes" the youth's object besides, and who, moreover, has grown very impatient during the examination, for, says honest Ephraim Barnett "He had ridden hard that morning, and had no cushion upon his seat as Sir Thomas had-and I have seen, in my time, that he who is seated on beechwood hath very different thoughts and moralities from him who is seated on goose-feathers under doe skin" and so the said chaplain proposes he may be committed at once, and afterwards sentenced to death or not, for "the penalty of the law may be commuted, if expedient, on application to the fountain of mercy, in London." Then answers the humanity which lurks behind the dignity of Sir Thomas, in these beautiful words: "May be, Silas, those shall be standing round the fount of mercy who play in idleness and wantonness with its waters, and let them not flow widely, nor take their natural course. Surely, had they done Dutiful gallants may so, they would have gathered together for us some encompass it, and it may linger among the flowers records of his personal career, and marked out for us they throw into it, and never reach the parched lip more distinctly, as a shrine for pilgrimage, the tomb on the way-side. These are homely thoughts of the man. But, no his works, they said, would thoughts from a-field, thoughts for the study be a "monument without a tomb." They were to and housekeeper's room. But whenever I have be associated with no sense of mortality-nor could given utterance to them, as my heart hath often we now have had the definite certainty that their prompted me with beatings at the breast, my hearers author was not, in truth, the demigod that they seem to bear towards me more true and kindly express him, but for our chance possession of that affection than my richest fancies and choicest phrase"key," which, while it "unlocks his heart," proves ologies could purchase." it to be mortal. Thanks to the bookseller who scraped together the sonnets of Shakspeare! There the immortal poet pours out his mortal sorrows. There we feel with him on the common ground of life; there we see him laying on his heart the low But we are getting on too fast. Let us go back a little. Our next extract shall be from the evidence of Joseph Carnaby, who watched the deer-stealers at their night-work. Mark how finely this passage shadows out the thoughts of the young poet, lightly and darkly thrown from him in the night; and what a capital picture he, and his strange vagaries, and his wondering companions, and their unlawful business, make! The witness himself, Joseph Carnaby, while he is delivering his evidence, cannot get rid of the awe the scene had thrown over him as he listened, and he looks more guilty-like than the Strange Thief. "Willy stands there," says the recording Ephraim, "with all the courage and composure of aminnocent man; and, indeed, with more than what an innocent man ought to possess in the presence of a magistrate." Now hear the evidence : "At this moment one of the accomplices cried 'Willy, Willy! prythee stop! enough in all conscience! first, thou diverted'st us from our undertaking with thy strange vagaries; thy Italian girl's nursery sighs; thy Pucks and pinchings, and thy Windsor whimsies. No kitten upon a bed of marum ever played such antics. It was summer and winter, night and day, with us within the hour; and with such religion did we think and feel it, we would have broken the man's jaw that gainsayed it. We have slept with thee under the oaks in the ancient forest of Arden, and we have wakened from our sleep in the tempest far at sea. Now art thou for frightening us again out of all the senses thou hadst given us, with witches and women more murderous than they.' Then followed a deeper voice; Stouter men and more resolute are few; but thou, my lad, hast words too weighty for flesh and bones to bear up against. And who knows but these creature's may pop amongst us at last, as the wolf did sure enough, upon him, the noisy rogue, who so long had been crying wolf! and wolf!" Some papers are found in the, young Thief's pocket, and read out in the Justice-room. Here is one of them, called the Maid's Lament,' and in pathos we never felt anything beyond it. The reader will take it to his heart for ever :- I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak, For reasons not to love him, once I sought, To vex myself and him: I now would give Who lately lived for me, and, when he found Tears that had melted his soft heart; for years These may she never share!' : this one verily is he who hath the fewest flowers and "Of all the youths that did ever write in verse, devices. But it would be loss of time to form a border, in the fashion of a kingly crown, or a dragon, or a Turk on horseback, out of buttercups and dandelions. * # The wench herself might well and truly have said all that matter without the poet, bating the rhymes and metre." Let the reader take this to his heart too : "This is the only kindness I ever heard of Master Silas towards his fellow-creatures. Never hold me unjust, Sir Knight, to Master Silas. Could I learn other good of him, I would freely say it; for we do good by speaking it, and none is easier. Even bad men are not bad men, while they praise the just. Their first step backward is more troublesome and wrenching to them than the last forward." We have said that the purpose of this book is one of a very lofty kind. Its wit and pathos, its humour, fancy, and imagination, are only made subservient to the most exalted expression of morality, to the embodyment of the subtlest and most profound spirit of humanity. Shakspeare, observing the Knight's theological turn, launches forth into sundry disquisitions, moral and religious, gleaned, as he says, from the discourses of a certain Doctor Glaston of Oxford. And though the worthy Justice sometimes seems to yearn for an authority, for something doctrinal-though he has a sort of half-longing for a thread or two from the coat of an apostle-is thirsty, it may be, for a smack of Augustin or hankereth after the perfume of a sprig from Basil--still he lieth back, as we fancy, in his great easy chair, twirls (perhaps) his thumbs over each other as easily as he can for the gout, and urges "Willy" to go on. The reader may pardon this defalcation from doctrine and the fathers, when he observes the light that leads astray. It is light indeed -a full beam of generous truth-of the rays of Heaven. But first observe Shakspeare's introduction to this pretended Dr Glaston, and the true philosophy of the passage: "What may thy name be, and where is thy abode ?' William Shakspeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, at your service, sir.' And welcome,' said he; thy father, ere now, hath bought our College wool. A truly good man we ever found him; and I doubt not he hath educated his son to follow him in his paths. There is in the blood of man, as in the blood of animals, that which giveth the temper and disposition. These require nurture and culture. But what nurture will turn flint stones into garden mould? or what culture rear cabbages in the quarries of Hedington Hill? To be well-born is the greatest of all God's primary blessings, young man, and there are many well-born among the poor and needy. Thou art not of the indigent and destitute, who have great temptations; thou art not of the wealthy and affluent, who have greater still. God hath placed thee, William Shakspeare, in that pleasant island, on one side whereof are the syrens, on the other the harpies, but inhabiting the coasts on the wide continent, and unable to make their talons felt, or their voices heard by thee, Unite with me in prayer and thanksgiving for the blessings thus vouchsafed. We must not close the heart when the fingers of God would touch it. Enough if thou sayest only My soul, praise thou the Lord.'" We trust none of our readers may take offence at the notion of this said Doctor Glaston, being neither Bishop, nor Bishop's Ordinary, presuming to propose a catechism to priests themselves. He does this in the following, and how finely! "Let us preachers, who are sufficiently liberal in bestowing our advice upon others, inquire of ourselves whether the exercise of spiritual authority may not be sometimes too pleasant, tickling our breasts with a plume from Satan's wing, and turning our heads with that inebriating poison which he hath been seen to instil into the very chalice of our salvation.. Let us ask ourselves in the closet, whether, after we have humbled ourselves before God in our prayers, we never rise beyond the true standard in the pulpit; whether our zeal for the truth be never overheated by internal fires less holy; whether we never grow stiffly or sternly pertinacious at the very time when we are reproving the obstinacy of others; and whether we have not frequently so acted as if we believed that opposition were to be relaxed and borne away by self-sufficiency and intolerance. Believe me, the wisest of us have our catechism to learn; and these, my dear friends, are not the only questions contained in it. No Christian can hate: no Christian can malign: nevertheless, do we not often hate and malign those unhappy creatures who are insensible to God's mercies? And I fear this unchristian spirit swells darkly, with all its venom, in the marble of our hearts, not because our brother is insensible to these mercies, but because he is insensible to our faculty of persuasion, turning a deaf ear unto our claim upon his obedience, or a blind or sleepy eye upon the fountain of light, whereof we deem ourselves the sacred reservoirs. " Then Sir Thomas hearing this, and secretly de. lighted, nevertheless thinks it due to his theology that he should get up some little quarrel with this pleasure, and peradventure crieth out from his great chair, Reasonable enough! nay, almost too reasonable! "But where are the Apostles? Where are the Disciples? Where are the Saints? Where is hell fire? Well, well," soothing himself, and falling back again for another delicious dream, "patience! we may come to it yet. Go on, Will!" and on Will goes accordingly. Here is the history of priesthood, and the antidote against it, which has, in all ages, had, in pure hearts, its chosen depositaries. In this he leaves Dr Glaston, and pretends to quote some book he had been reading : Latin are picked up by the callowest beaks. The What follows is a truly splendid passage. How here. "Young gentlemen! Let not the highest of you, who hear me this evening, be led into the delusion, for such it is, that the founder of his family was originally a greater or a better man than the lowest He willed it, and became it. He must have stood low; he must have worked hard; and with tools, moreover, of his own invention and fashioning. He waived and whistled off ten thousand strong and importunate temptations; he dashed the dice-box from the jewelled hand of Chance, the cup from Pleasure's, and trod under foot the sorceries of each; he ascended steadily the precipices of Danger, and looked down with intrepidity from the summit; he overawed Arrogance with Sedateness; he seized by the horn and overleaped low Violence; and he fairly swung Fortune round. The very high cannot rise much higher; the very low may; the truly great must have done it. This is not the doctrine, my friends, of the silkenly and lawnly religious; it wears the coarse texture of the fisherman, and walks uprightly and straightforward under it." "Those cunning men who formed to themselves the gorgeous plan of universal dominion, were aware that they had a better chance of establishing it than brute ignorance or brute force could supply, and that soldiers and their paymasters were subject to other and powerfuller fears than the transitory ones of war and invasion. What they found in heaven they seized; what they wanted they forged. And so long as there is vice and ignorance in the world, so long as fear is a passion, their dominion will prevail; but their dominion is not, and never shall be, universal. Can we wonder that it is so general. Can we wonder that anything is wanting to give it authority and effect, when every learned, every prudent, every powerful, every ambitious man in Europe, for above a thousand years, united in the league to consolidate it? The old dealers in the shambles, where Christ's body is exposed for sale in convenient marketable slices, have not covered with blood and filth the whole pavement. Beautiful usages are remaining still-kinder affections, radiant hopes, and ardent aspirations." But here, the Doctor speaks again in an admirable piece of just and acute criticism. It satisfies an old grudge of ours against the Romans: "William, I need not expatiate on Greek with thee, since thou knowest it not, but some crumbs of Who will not acknowledge the truth of what Shakspeare subsequently puts into the mouth of Doctor Faustus, quoting, as it were, from the book that made the devil think it worth his while to deal with him? "Faustus was not your man for fancies and figments; and he tells us that, to his certain knowledge, it was verily an owl's face that whispered so much mischief in the car of our first parent. One plainly sees it, quoth Doctor Faustus, under that gravity which in human life we call dignity, but of which we read nothing in the Gospel. We despise the hangman, we detest the hanged; and yet, saith Duns Scotus, could we turn aside the heavy curtain, or stand high enough a-tiptoe to peep through its chinks and crevices, we should, perhaps, find these two characters to stand justly among the most innocent in the drama. He who blinketh the eyes of the poor wretch about to die, doeth it out of mercy; those who preceded him-bidding him, in the garb of justice, to shed the blood of his fellow-man-bad less, or none." The more incidental sketches of feeling and character in the book are of a subtle and exquisite kind. Ethelbert, a young poet, struck by the hand of consumption, is exceedingly touching. He speaks to his more impatient friends "Be patient! From the higher heavens of poetry, it is long before the radience of the brightest star can reach the world below. We hear that one man finds out one beauty, another man finds out another, placing his observatory and instruments on the poet's grave. The worms must have eaten us before it is rightly known what we are. It is only when we are skeletons that we are boxed and ticketed, and prised and shewn. Be it so ! I shall not be tired of waiting." death with holy love) she left them both with their Creator. The curate of the village sent those who should bring home the body; and some days afterwards he came unto me, beseeching me to write the epitaph. Being no friend to stone-cutters' charges, I entered not into biography, but wrote these few words. Joannes Wellerby, Literarum quæsivit gloriam, Videt Dei.'" But the highest point of pathos in the book is reached in the description we are about to quote. We never read anything finer. Young Wellerby, a ripe and promising scholar at the University, broken in spirit by an unfortunate passion, flies to the relief of poetry, and abandons his severer toil. He has a mother. The master of his college has remonstrated with her concerning her son. Doctor Glaston and she now speak, the Doctor being supposed to repeat what passed: In the conference of Master Edmund Spenser with the Earl of Essex, we have evidences of the same fine genius. Spenser laments his domestic calamities, "none in any season, none in any place, like mine." Essex beautifully answers: "So say all fathers; so say all husbands. Look at any old mansion-house, and let the sun shine as gloriously as it may on the golden vanes, or the arms recently quartered over the gateway, or the embayed window, and on the happy pair that haply are toying at it; nevertheless, thou mayest say that, of a certainty, the same fabric hath seen much sorrow within its chambers, and heard many wailings; and each time was the heaviest stroke of all. Funerals have passed along through the stout-heated knights upon the wainscot, and amidst the laughing nymphs uport the arras. Old servants have shaken their heads, as if somebody had deceived them, when they found that beauty and nobility could perish. Edmund! the things that are too true pass by us as if they were not true at all; and, when they have singled us out, then only do they strike us. Here we must suddenly close. We have, perhaps, outrun our limits in a desire to do justice to this remarkable book. It is an honour to its author; it does honour to English literature; it is an addition to the are list of books that will live. The man who could write it knows this, and smiles, of course We have at the reception it has hitherto met with. not been fortunate enough to see it praised anywhere! "I rated him, told him I was poor, and he knew it. He was stung, and threw himself upon my neck and wept. Twelve days have passed since, and only three rainy ones. I hear he has been seen upon the knoll yonder, but hither he hath not come. I trust he knows, at last, the value of time, and I shall be heartily glad to see him after this accession of knowledge. Twelve days, it is true, are rather a chink than a gap in time; yet, O, gentle sir! they are that chink which makes the vase quite valueless. There are light words which may never be shaken off the mind they fall on. My child, who was hurt by me, will not let me see the marks.'-' Lady,' said I, none are left upon him. Be comforted! Thou shalt see him this hour. All that thy God hath not taken, is yet thine.' She looked at me earnestly, and would have then asked something, but her voice failed her. There was no agony, no motion, save in the lips and cheeks. Being the widow of one who fought under Hawkins, she remembered his courage, and sustained the shock, and said calmly, God's will be done! I pray that he find me as worthy as he findeth me willing to join them. Now, in her unearthly thoughts, she had led her only son to the bosom of her husband; and in her spirit (which is often permitted to pass the gates of It is clear, from the internal evidence, that the book is by Mr Walter Savage Landor. ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. XLIX. HISTORY OF FELIX PERETTI. FELIX PERETTI, the son of a peasant at Montalto, a village in the Papal territory of Ancona, discovered at an early age quick parts and a retentive memory: but the poverty of his parents obliged them to part with him when only nine years old; and he was placed in the service of a neighbouring farmer. In this situation, Felix did not satisfy his employer, He was perpetually finding fault with the lad for his unhandiness in husbandry work, and observing that corrections served only to augment his apparent stupidity, he dismissed him from the house, the barn, and the stable, to what was considered as a more servile and degrading species of occupation;-the taking care of a number of hogs on an adjoining This person was a Franciscan, who, travelling to that place, had lost his way; in fact, the poor boy was so absorbed in grief, that he did not observe any one approaching till he heard the voice of the friar, who had spoken to him several times before he could procure an answer. Affected by his melancholy appearance, he naturally asked the cause, and received an account of his hopeless condition related in a strain of good sense and vivacity (for, on speaking to him, he resumed his natural cheerfulness), which surprised the holy father, when he considered his age and wretched, appear ance. "But I must not forget that you are going to Ascoli," said Felix, starting nimbly from the bank on which he was sitting, then, pointing out the proper road, he accompanied the friar, who was charmed at finding so much untaught politeness in a little rustic. Considering himself as sufficiently informed, he thanked the boy, and would have dismissed him with a small present, but he still continued running and skipping before him, till Father Michael asked, in a jocose way, if he meant to go with him quite to the town. "Not only to Ascoli, but to the end of the world," said Felix, unwilling to quit his companion. "Ah, sir!" continued the lad, after a short pause, in a tone of voice, and with one of those looks which make their way at once to our hearts, “Ah, sir! if you or any other worthy gentleman would but get me the place of an errand boy, or any other employment in a convent, however laborious, (where I could procure a little learning, and get away from those filthy hogs and the owner of them, who is little better, I would try to make,myself useful, and should be bound to pray for and bless you as long as I live." "But you would not take the habit of a religious order?" said the Franciscan. "Most willingly," replied Felix. You are little aware of the hardships, the fastings, the toil, the watchings, and the labour which you would undergo." "I would endure the pains of purgatory to become a scholar," was the boy's singular reply. Finding him in earnest, and surprised at his courage and resolution, he permitted the stripling to accompany him to Ascoli, where he introduced him to the society of Cordeliers he was going to visit, informing them at the same time of the circumstance which first introduced him to this new acquaintance. The superior sent for the boy, put many questions to him, and was so well pleased, that he immediately admitted him. He was immediately invested with the habit of a lay-brother, and appointed to assist the Sacristan in sweeping the church and lighting the candles. In return for these and other services he was taught the responses and instructed in gram mar. In acquiring knowledge, the little stranger was found to unite a readiness of comprehension with unceasing application; his progress was so rapid that, in 1534, being then only fourteen years old, he entered on his noviciate, and, after the usual time, was admitted to make his profession. On taking deacon's orders, he preached his first sermon to a numerous congregation, it being the Feast of the Annunciation, when he soon convinced his hearers that the man who was instructing them possessed no common share of abilities. The service being concluded, a prelate then present thanked Felix publicly for his discourse, encouraged him to persist diligently in his studies, and congratulated him, as well as the society of which he was a member, on the fairness of his prospects. He was ordained a priest in 1545, took the degrees of bachelor and doctor with considerable credit, and, being chosen to keep a divinity act before the whole chapter of his order, father Montalto (that being the name he now assumed) so distinguished himself, that he secured the esteem, and afterwards enjoyed the patronage and protection of two cardinals, Carpi and Alexandrino. The time, indeed, was now come when a friend was necessary to defend him against the numerous enemies his acrimonious violence had created; for, as Montalto advanced to notice and celebrity, impetuosity of temper and impatience of contradiction became prominent features in his character; his air and manners were predominating and dictatorial. At this period of his life he is described (by a contemporary, who, I suspect, had felt his reproof) as one of those troublesome people, who, presuming on what I have called the aristocracy of intellect and the insolence of good design, fancy they can set the world to rights, and consider themselves as authorised to censure without respect of persons, and to amend, without regard to consequences, whatever they see amiss in church or state. It cannot be denied that, at the time of which I speak, the reins of government, ecclesiastical as well as civil, were held with a careless and slackened hand; that public and private morals were notoriously corrupt and profligate through the whole extent of the Papal dominions; that Rome was a nest and a place of refuge for everything base and villanous in Italy; that the roads and even the streets of the great city could not be passed after night, without incurring the danger of robbery and murder. But men in public stations, however culpable their dereliction of duty, when they recollected that the present reformer of abuse, less than twenty years before, was a poor peasant, an object of charity and commiseration, could not prevail on themselves to submit to his censures without resistance and indignation. But the hour was rapidly approaching when Montalto possessed the power, as well as inclination, not only to reprove, but to punish evil doers. By the interest of Cardinal Alexandrino, who saw and understood the unbending sternness of his dispo'sition, he was appointed to an office which seemed -congenial with such a temper,-Inquisitor General at Venice. But the unqualified harshness of his manners, and the peremptory violence with which he executed his duty, soon raised a storm in that jealous republic, and he would have suffered personal violence from the enraged Venetians, had he not saved himself by a precipitate flight. A few months after, he visited a country sensible of the value of such a character, and where such zeal was duly appreciated: Cardinal Buon Compagno, being appointed Legatus a latere, in plain English, Ambassador from the Pope to his Catholic Majesty, Montalto accompanied him into Spain, as his chaplain and inquisitorial consulter. In this capacity he was received at Madrid with great cordiality, and gave such proofs of the warmth of his zeal, that, on the Cardinal's recal, ecclesiastical honours and preferment were repeatedly offered, if if he would establish himself in that country; but the palace of the Vatican, the city on seven hills, Imperial Rome, was the object on which the shepherd of Ancona had fixed an unaverted eye. The Legate Buon Compagno had quitted Spain only a few hours, when he met a messenger de spatched from Rome with news of the Pope's death; Montalto was strongly interested in this intelli- In this hope he was not disappointed, and on his arrival at Rome, his friend, now exalted to an ecclesiastic throne, under the name of Pius V, received him with kindness, and immediately appointed him general of his order, a post in which Montalto did not forget to punish those whom he had before admonished. In less than four years from the elevation of Cardinal Alexandrino he was made a bishop, received a competent pension, and was ultimately (1570) admitted into the College of Cardinals. Being now arrived within a short distance of the mountain top, which, for more than forty years he had been arduously and laboriously attempting to climb, he found a firm and safe resting place on which to rest his foot. It cannot be denied that his reflections on this occasion must have been in the highest degree solacing and triumphant; from poverty, contempt, and oppression, from a life of labour unrequited, and with an ardent thirst for knowledge, which, at a certain time, it seemed impossible for him ever to gratify, he was suddenly placed at the fountain head of learning and information; the treasures of ancient and modern literature were displayed before his eyes, he was raised to personal, and, what was still more flattering, to an intellectual eminence, which was generally acknowledged and felt; he was exalted to a post, which, in those days placed him on an equality with kings. But with so many rational sources of exultation, with so much to hope, there was still much to fear; his new associates, generally speaking, were men of talents; well educated, and with the proud blood of the Medici, the Caraffa, the Farnese, the Colonna, and the Frangipani families, swelling their veins; many of them not only of illustrious descent, but endowed with a considerable share of deep political sagacity as statesmen; and all alike wishing for, yet anxiously concealing their wishes, to succeed to the chair of St Peter. With competitors of this description it must be confessed that Montalto had a difficult and trying part to act. Being convinced that a severe assuming character was not likely to succeed, he gradually suppressed every angry passion, and artfully disguised the foibles and imperfections of his temper under a convenient mask of mildness, affability, and uncon cern. One of his nephews, on a journey to Rome, to see his uncle, being murdered, the Cardinal, now a new man, instead of aiding in the prosecution of the offender, interceded for his pardon; he did not encou rage visits from his relations, several of whom hearing of his advancement, repaired to Rome, but lodged their arrival, with an inconsiderable present, strictly them at an inn, and dismissed them the day after charging them to return to their families, and trouble him no more, for that he now found his spiritual cares increasing every day, that he was dead to his relations and the world; but as old age and infirmities came on, he perhaps might send for one of them to wait upon and nurse him. On the death of his friend, Pius the Fifth, he entered the conclave with the rest of the cardinals, but did not appear to interest himself in the election; and friends, replied, "that the sentiments of so obscure on being applied to by any of the candidates or their and insignificant a man as he was, could be of no imhe was fearful of making a false step, and left the portance; that having never before been in a conclave, affair to his brethren, who were persons of great weight and experience, and all of them such worthy characters, that he was quite at a loss which to vote for, and wished only he had as many voices as there were members of the sacred college." Cardinal Buon Compagno being elected, and having assumed the name of Gregory the Thirteenth, the subject of our present article did not forget to pay court to him, but soon found he was no favourite, having offended his holiness when Legate in Spain, by refusing to remain at Madrid as he desired. Montalto now became a pattern of meekness, modesty and humility; he lived frugally in a small house, without ostentation; this best species of prudence and economy, which enabled him to feed the hungry and clothe the naked by retrenching his own superfluities procured him the character of a friend to the poor; he also submitted patiently to every species of injury or indignity, and was remarked for treating his worst enemies with tenderness, condescension, and forgive ness. In the meantime he had so far deceived the majority of the cardinals, that they considered him as a poor, weak, doating old fellow, incapable of doing either good or harm, and, by way of ridicule, they called him the Ass of La Marca, the district round Ancona, to a certain extent, being called the March of Ancona. An evident alteration took place in the appearance of his health; he felt, or affected to feel, violent internal pains, which, not being always accompanied with external appearances, afford no positive proof of the existence of disease to the senses, and we are generally obliged to take the word of those who say they feel them. He applied for advice to medical men in various quarters of the city, describing what he felt, which (having secretly gathered the information from books) they described as alarming symptoms produced by causes which, in all probability would shorten his days; public prayers were offered up for his recovery, and the intercession of all devout Christians and good men earnestly requested. At intervals he would appear in a state of convalescence, but considerably changed; of a pale countenance, thin, bent in body, and leaning painfully on his staff; by a few persons, who suspected the duplicity of his conduct, these untoward appearances were said to be produced by the frequent use of nauseating medicines, nocturnal watchings, and rigid abstinence. But with all his apparent sufferings, and affected indifference to public men and public measures, his eyes and ears were open and intent on every transaction, public as well as private; by means of apt emissaries, many of whom were domestics, with Cardinals and Ambassadors, he made himself acquainted with every event either directly or remotely connected with his ambitious views. Considering auricular confession as a convenient instrument to forward political intrigue, and his reputation as a learned divine being firmly established, he attended, whenever his health would permit, to hear confessions, and was resorted to by crowds of all ranks. In this post he procured great help towards his aggrandisement, and is said to have extracted secrets on which he afterwards grounded many judicial pun ishments. At this propitious moment (1585), and at a time when the College of Cardinals was torn by opposite interests and divided by contending factions, at this auspicious moment died Gregory the Thirteenth. Montalto accompanied the Cardinals into the conchamber, was scarcely spoken to, or thought of; if clave, and, immediately shutting himself in his at any time it was necessary as a matter of form, or for the purpose of calculating numbers, to consult him, his door was found fast, and a message was sent that he would wait on their eminences the moment his coughing and violent pain were abated; but earnestly entreated them to proceed to business, as the presence of so insignificant a person as himself could not be necessary, and he hoped they would not disturb a man sinking under disease, whose thoughts were placed on another world. At the end of fourteen days, three powerful parties, each of whom had considered themselves as certain of choosing their own Pope, found their views defeated in consequence of the votes being equally divided. Impatient of delay, and hoping that a vacancy would Marca, whom every man thought he could manage soon take place, if they elected the old Ass of La as he pleased, they unanimously concurred in electing him. The moment he was chosen, Montalto threw away the staff on which he had hitherto supported himself, then suddenly raised his head, and expanding his chest, he surprised everyone present by appearing at least a foot taller. Coming forward with a firm step, an erect and dignified air, he thanked them for the high honour they had conferred upon him, the duties of which, with God's good grace, he would to the utmost of his power conscientiously perform. claimed "Long live the Pope-Plenty, Holy Father, answer. Impatient to exercise the rights of sovereignty, he ordered his triple crown to be immediately produced, and placed it on a velvet cushion in the room where he sat; he was also desirous of being immediately crowned and enthroned; but being informed that his authority and prerogatives were in every respect as firmly established and as extensive before as after the ceremony of coronation, he reluctantly consented to a short delay, for the necessary preparations. The humility and complaisance he had for so many years assumed, immediately vanished; those predominating passions, which had been suppressed by interested views and political dissimulation, regained their ascendency, and burst forth with augmented fury. So great an alteration in his conduct and manners, as well as health, was a bitter disappointment to those Cardinals who, to serve their own purposes, had assisted in the elevation of Montalto, who now assumed the name of Pope Sixtus the Fifth. It was not merely his refusing them the least share or appearance of authority; it was not only the loss of patronage and influence they had to lament; but the mortification of being over-reached and defeated by the old man who for more than fourteen years had been the object of their ridicule and contempt; he had met them on their own ground, and conquered them with their own weapons. If at any time they hesitated in concurring with the vigorous and salutary measures of his government, and ventured to expostulate and represent the inconsistence of his former conduct and professions, he instantly silenced them, and observed: "That feeling himself much improved in health and spirits, he was able, by God's assistance, and would endeavour to govern the Church without their help or advice; that he was their sovereign, and would be obeyed." The day before his coronation, the governor of Rome and the keeper of the castle of St Angelo waited on Sixtus to inform him that it had been the custom for every new Pope to grant an universal jail delivery, and a free pardon to all offenders; they wished to know his pleasure. He eagerly asked for a list of the malefactors in custody; they gave him a paper filled with names, as, on these occasions, expecting what would take place, the prisons were crowded with a number of miscreants, who, in consequence of murder, robbery, and other crimes, had the sword of the law hanging over their heads. By surrendering themselves, they all hoped and expected, according to long-established custom, to procure indemnity for past offences, and security, on being released, for persevering in their criminal courses. "Mercy on us!" exclaimed his Holiness "what a nest of villains have we here! but are you not aware, Mr Governor, and you, Mr Jailer, of the glaring impropriety of your conduct in pretending to talk of pardon and acts of grace; leave such matters to your sovereign. Depending on your never repeating this impertinent interference with my powers and prerogatives, I, for once, will pardon it; but instantly go back to your charge and see that good care be taken of those you have in prison, for, as I hold my trust from God, if one of your prisoners escape, I will hang you on the highest gibbet I can procure. "It was not to protect delinquents, and encourage sinners that Divine Providence placed me in the chair of St Peter; to pardon men notoriously and flagrantly wicked, who glory in their crimes and only wait for liberty that they may again practice their enormities, would be to share their guilt." "I see you have four criminals under sentence of death for abominable crimes, and in whose favour I have applications and petitions from all quarters; their friends, I have no doubt, think they are doing right, but I must not forget my duty. "It is therefore my pleasure," continued Sixtus in an elevated tone, and with a severe look, "it is my will and pleasure that to-morrow, at the hour of my coronation, two of them suffer by the axe, and two of them by the halter, in different quarters of the city; we shall then do an act of justice pleasing to the Almighty, and take off many of those idle and disorderly people who, at public ceremonies, generally occasion so much riot and confusion." His orders on this occasion were literally obeyed. The day after the ceremony, many of the nobility and gentry waited on the Pope, to congratulate him, but he said, "his was a post of toil and duty that he had not time for compliments," and with these words he was on the point of retiring, but a master of the ceremonies informed him that a crowd of cardinals, nobles, ambassadors, senators, and wealthy citizens demanded an audience. The greater part of them having relations, friends, or dependents, who, in consequence of their crimes, had fled from justice and joined banditti, but had lately surrendered themselves on the prospect and probability of a general and universal liberation; their expectations in this respect were disappointed as the Pope had positively declared that not a single offender should be pardoned. The deputation represented to Sixtus in strong language the indecency of so sanguinary a proceeding, at a season which had been generally devoted to mirth and rejoicing, and were proceeding to further arguments in the hope of prevailing on him to retract his resolution. But the person they addressed could restrain himself no longer; commanding silence on pain of his displeasure, he thus addressed them with angry looks and in a loud voice: "I am surprised at the insolence of your representations, and your apparent ignorance of the obedience which ought, in all cases, to be paid to the orders of a sovereign prince. When the government of our holy Church was committed to Saint Peter by Christ, it surely was not his design that the successors of the holy apostle should be tutored and directed by their subjects. "But if you do not, or will not do your duty, I am resolved to practise mine; I hope and trust that I shall not, like my predecessors, suffer law and justice to sleep; by which means the ecclesiastical states have been rendered, and are notoriously become, the most debauched, and, in every respect, the wickedest spot on the surface of the globe a byeword to the scorner and the heretic-a reproach to the faith we profess. "Retire (raising his arm and voice as he repeated the word, seeing the cardinals did not appear to move),—retire, and instead of wishing to obstruct law and justice, endeavour to co-operate with me in cleansing this filthy Augean stable; for, as to the criminals in question, no motive of any kind shall ever induce me to pardon one of them; each offender shall undergo, without fear, favour, partiality, or resentment, the punishment attached by law to the crime he has committed, and I shall make strict inquiry after all those who have patronised and encouraged them, whom I cannot but consider as participators in their guilt, and will also punish. The different prisoners suffered the sentence of the law. They departed in silent dismay; and a few months after, as his Holiness was repairing to St Peter's on the day of a public festival, a crowd, as was customary, assembled to see him pass; the people on this occasion were so numerous, and pressed so closely, that the Swiss guards, who always attend the Pope, were under the necessity of making way with their halberts. Among the multitude, there happened unfortunately to be the son of a Spanish Grandee, who having arrived only that morning at Rome, had not time nor opportunity to secure an unmolested spot for viewing the procession. This gentleman, standing foremost, was pushed back somewhat rudely. The enraged Spaniard, following the poor Swiss into the church, murdered him as he fell on his knees at the foot of the altar, and endeavoured to fly for refuge to the house of the Spanish Ambassador; he was pursued by two comrades of the deceased, and taken into custody. Intelligence of this barbarous and sacrilegious act quickly reached the ears of Sixtus. After the service of the day was concluded, the Governor of Rome also waited on his Holiness, as he was going to his coach, to know his pleasure, and wait for instructions how to proceed. "Well, sir," said Sixtus," and what do you think ought to be done in a case of flagrant murder, thus committed before my face, and in the house of God?" "I have given orders," said the officer, "for informations being taken, and a process being commenced." "A process!" replied the Pope; "what occasion can there be for processes in a crime like this, committed before hundreds of witnesses ?" "I thought your Holiness would choose to observe due form of law," answered the Governor; "particularly in this instance, as the criminal is the only son of a person of consideration, in high favour with his Catholic Majesty, and under the protection of his Ambassador." Say not a word to me of consideration and protection. Crime levels every distinction; his rank and education should have taught him better. It is our pleasure that he shall be hanged before we sit down to dinner." The trial of the prisoner being soon gone through, and a gallows erected in the interval, on a spot where the Pope could see it from the saloon in which he was sitting, he did not quit the apartment till he saw the Spaniard brought forth and suspended; he then retired from the window and went to dinner, repeating with a loud voice a favourite passage from the Psalms:-" I shall soon destroy all the ungodly in the land, and root out evil-doers from the city of the Lord!" curing an ostensible parent for their illegitimate offspring, and carrying on securely an adulterous inter course. The first example of this kind was that of a person from whom his Holiness had experienced many acts of kindness, before he was created a Cardinal. After a momentary struggle he sent for his former friend privately, and warmly censuring him for his conduct, he warned him of the consequence of persevering in the unlawful connexion; and assured him that his duty as a magistrate was paramount to his feelings as a friend, and advised him either to remove the female or to quit his dominions. A few months after, Sixtus ordered secret spies to watch the parties, and finding that the person he had reproved still continued the criminal attachment, probably presuming on the indulgence of former friendship, he ordered the offender, the husband and wife, to be hanged without delay; three domestics, acquainted with the illicit proceeding, he ordered to be publicly whipped, for not giving information. It had been usual for the people to exclaim "Long live the Pope" whenever he passed, but finding that this mode of acclamation prevented his dropping in unexpectedly at the courts of justice and public offices, he forbad the custom; on two unlucky rogues who, from obstinacy or inadvertency, disobeyed this injunction, he ordered the strapado to be inflicted immediately on the spot; this effectually prevented a repetition. Assassinations and duels had disgraced the reigns of all his predecessors, and rendered Rome and Italy unsafe. To arrest, and, if possible, remove an evil productive of public danger and private distress, he published an edict, forbidding, on pain of death, any persons, whatever their rank, drawing a sword or even having in their possession any instrument of death as they passed the streets, except his own magistrates and officers. Bystanders who did not prevent, and seconds who encouraged duelling, he instantly sent to the gallies. A few instances of rigid severity effectually removed the grievance. Anything like revenge or bearing malice he would not endure. A barber quarrelling with one of his neighbours, held up his hand in a threatening manner, and, with a significant motion of his head, had been heard to say, "If ever he comes under my hands I will do his business." This being repeated to the Pontiff, he ordered the speaker of the obnoxious words to be taken into custody, then directing all the barbers in Rome to be collected in one of the squares, the offender underwent a long and severe whipping before them. His Holiness observing that tradesmen suffered seriously and often became bankrupts, in consequence of long credit and bad pay, to the great injury of commerce, and frequently of the public revenue, he quickly produced an important reformation on a point which loudly calls for amendment in Great Britain and Ireland. A hint to his officers that he wished to collect information on the subject was sufficient. A tradesman, in all probability previously instructed, made complaint, that having applied to a person of distinction for payment of a debt which had been long due, and of which he stood in urgent need, the debtor had violently resented it, withdrawn his own custom from the poor man's shop, and persuaded many others to do the like, telling the person he injured, in an insolent manner, "That gentlemen paid their debts only when they pleased." Sixtus sent for both parties, ordered the money to be instantly paid, with interest from the time of its being due, and committed the fraudulent debtor to prison. Such was the conduct of the little peasant of Ancona when elevated to supreme power. He became a rigid but impartial censor of public defaulters and private transgressors. He ordered the public functionaries throughout his dominions to send him, each of them, a list of every person in their neighbourhood who was notorious for debauchery, drunkenness, or other vicious habits; first, inquiring into the truth of their information, he sent for and privately re-recting all the merchants and tradesmen to send his proved them; but if this warning was not attended to, he severely punished the offender. Having deeply impressed a conviction of his inexorable regard to justice, persons exercising authority under him performed the duties with scrupulous exactness. The various remarkable instances in which this extraordinary man exerted his powers in suppressing vicious enormity, would, if introduced in this place, extend our present article to a length inconsistent with the nature of this publication. With respect to women, a violation of their chastity, by force or by fraud, with or against their consent, he never pardoned; and even a slight deviation from public decorum did not go unpunished; a subsequent marriage, on either of these occasions, he did not consider as a satisfaction to justice. This delicacy so scrupulously severe, he carried to an excess in many instances, inconsistent with human infirmity, or the wishes and often the happiness of the injured women, who in several instances had their husbands torn from their embraces and committed to the gallies for follies and indiscretions committed before marriage, in the furious licentiousness of stimulating passion. He determined to put a stop to a depraved custom then generally prevalent in his dominions among the elevated and wealthy classes of society, that of marrying a mistress to a dependent, for the purpose of pro At the same time a proclamation was issued, di Holiness a list of their book debts, with the names of those from whom the money was due; he directly paid the whole, taking the debts on himself, which, in consequence of the general alarm, were quickly discharged. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that the subject of our present article exercised a rigid and inexorable despotism; but exerting it in most instances with impartial justice, and for salutary purposes, his power was submitted to with less reluctance: he is called, by a writer of that period, a terror and a scourge; but it was to evil doers, to the profligate, the incorrigible, and the corrupt. Most rational men, I believe, would prefer living under an absolute monarch of such a cast, than under the easy sway of a lax moralist, a generous libertine, or one of those devilish good kind of fellows who are commonly described as no man's enemy but their own; a character which cannot exist,—as it is impossible he can be a friend to others who is in a state of constant hostility with himself. At all events the great interests of society's public happiness and private peace are most effectually preserved by a prince like Montalto. In his transactions with foreign princes, Sixtus uniformly preserved a dignified firmness, from which he never relaxed. Very early in his reign, he was involved in a dispute with Philip the IInd, King of Spain, who, though the most superstitious of bigots |