This only proves the profundity of an observation made by Mr. Bagehot—­a man who carried away into the next world more originality of thought than is now to be found in the Three Estates of the Realm.  Whilst remarking upon the extraordinary reputation of the late Francis Horner and the trifling cost he was put to in supporting it, Mr. Bagehot said that it proved the advantage of “keeping an atmosphere.”

The common air of heaven sharpens men’s judgments.  Poor Horner, but for that kept atmosphere of his always surrounding him, would have been bluntly asked “what he had done since he was breeched,” and in reply he could only have muttered something about the currency.  As for our special rogue Cellini, the question would probably have assumed this shape:  “Rascal, name the crime you have not committed, and account for the omission.”

But these awkward questions are not put to the lucky people who keep their own atmospheres.  The critics, before they can get at them, have to step out of the every-day air, where only achievements count and the Decalogue still goes for something, into the kept atmosphere, which they have no sooner breathed than they begin to see things differently, and to measure the object thus surrounded with a tape of its own manufacture.  Horner—­poor, ugly, a man neither of words nor deeds—­becomes one of our great men; a nation mourns his loss and erects his statue in the Abbey.  Mr. Bagehot gives several instances of the same kind, but he does not mention Cellini, who is however in his own way an admirable example.

You open his book—­a Pharisee of the Pharisees.  Lying, indeed!  Why, you hate prevarication.  As for murder, your friends know you too well to mention the subject in your hearing, except in immediate connection with capital punishment.  You are of course willing to make some allowance for Cellini’s time and place—­the first half of the sixteenth century and Italy!  “Yes,” you remark, “Cellini shall have strict justice at my hands.”  So you say as you settle yourself in your chair and begin to read.  We seem to hear the rascal laughing in his grave.  His spirit breathes upon you from his book—­peeps at you roguishly as you turn the pages.  His atmosphere surrounds you; you smile when you ought to frown, chuckle when you should groan, and—­oh, final triumph!—­laugh aloud when, if you had a rag of principle left, you would fling the book into the fire.  Your poor moral sense turns away with a sigh, and patiently awaits the conclusion of the second volume.

How cautiously does he begin, how gently does he win your ear by his seductive piety!  I quote from Mr. Roscoe’s translation:—­