playwright he wrote, among many lesser efforts, one supreme comedy,
_Mandragola_, which Macaulay declares to be better than the best of
Goldoni's plays, and only less excellent than the very best of
Molière's. Italian critics call it the finest play in Italian. The plot
is not for nursery reading, but there are tears and laughter and pity
and anger to furnish forth a copious author, and it has been not ill
observed that _Mandragola_ is the comedy of a society of which _The
Prince_ is the tragedy.

[Sidenote: The End.]

It has been said of the Italians of the Renaissance that with so much of
unfairness in their policy, there was an extraordinary degree of
fairness in their intellects. They were as direct in thought as they
were tortuous in action and could see no wickedness in deceiving a man
whom they intended to destroy. To such a charge--if charge it
be--Machiavelli would have willingly owned himself answerable. He
observed, in order to know, and he wished to use his knowledge for the
advancement of good. To him the means were indifferent, provided only
that they were always apt and moderate in accordance with necessity, A
surgeon has no room for sentiment: in such an operator pity were a
crime. It is his to examine, to probe, to diagnose, flinching at no
ulcer, sparing neither to himself or to his patient. And if he may not
act, he is to lay down very clearly the reasons which led to his
conclusions and to state the mode by which life itself may be saved,
cost what amputation and agony it may. This was Machiavelli's business,
and he applied his eye, his brains, and his knife with a relentless
persistence, which, only because it was so faithful, was not called
heroic. And we know that he suffered in the doing of it and that his
heart was sore for his patient. But there was no other way. His record