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-bye
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 labelled
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,