the defendant had fallen: the latter being first
placed below in a convenient position to break
the other's fall. The proposal was declined.

The story of Shylock and Antonio seems to
date from the age of Amurath the First. A
Turk lent a Christian trader one hundred
crowns, on the condition that if the debt were
not paid at a certain period, the defaulter
should forfeit two ounces of flesh. This was in
strict conformity with the Turkish maxim,
"Qui non solvit in aere, solvat in cute;" which
may be briefly rendered, "Money, or skin."
The debtor failed. The Moslem Shylock stuck
to his bond. Amurath decreed that he might
exact the penalty; but with the understanding
that, if he took an atom more or less than his
due, he should suffer in a similar manner. No
vexatious stipulations were made, as at Venice,
about the "blood."

Charles the Fifth appealed successfully to the
inner testimony, in the case of two ladies of quality,
who, after much disputing, applied to the king as
to which should take precedence of the other.

"The sillier," decided his majesty.

The judgments of the Duke d'Ossuna might
have suggested to Cervantes the never-to-be-
forgotten decisions of Sancho Panza, during his
brief but brilliant rule at Barataria: On the
occasion of a grand fête, the duke went on
board one of the galleys, with the humane
purpose of releasing a prisoner, in honour of the
day. Approaching the first bench, to which six
of the unfortunate convicts were chained, he
questioned the nearest as to his crime. The
man demurely replied that he was entirely
innocent of crime, but found his consolation in
the reflection that the Almighty dispenser of
events supplied him with the patience his case
required. Number Two declared that the
machinations of his personal enemies alone had
brought him to the oar. Number Three took a
mere legal objection. He had not enjoyed the
full formality of a trial. Number Four's case
was particularly hard. The lord of his village
had corrupted his wife, and, to get rid of him,
suborned false testimony. Number Five had
been accused of theft. Of that, however, he
was completely innocent, and, were the whole
village (that of Somma) fortunately present,
they would prove it in the most triumphant
manner. Number Six, who had enjoyed the
opportunity of observing that none of these little
explanations had entirely satisfied the duke,
adopted a different course. "Your excellency,"
he replied, "I am from Naples. It is a large
city; but, upon my faith, I do not believe its
walls enclosed a greater rascal than I. Justice
has dealt leniently with such a wretch, in
condemning him only to the galleys." The duke
smiled. "Take this scoundrel instantly from
the bench," he said. "He is enough to corrupt
a whole galley of such innocent men as those
beside him! Give him ten crowns to buy some
clothes; and see, you rascal," he added, "that
you reform your ways. As for these other
worthy but unfortunate gentlemen, they will, I
am sure, return me their thanks for ridding them
of a fellow who might have corrupted even them."

The rumour of this incident spread rapidly
in convict circles, and when, two days later, the
duke paid a similar visit to another galley, and
addressed his accustomed questions to the crew,
the amount of self-accusation was perfectly
appalling! Not a man but, by his own account,
merited either the gibbet or the wheel. The
duke was moved, as well he might be, by their
terrible revelations. "It is strange," he said,
"to find so many souls capable of such diabolical
wickedness! Their punishment is the only
public safety. To release these three hundred
miscreants were to turn loose in the ripe cornfields
as many foxes, with firebrands at their
tails. Give every man of them a heavier chain."
One alone made answer. He was an apostate
monk. "The fetters of a convent," he remarked,
"were more galling than those of the galleys."

"Strike off this fellow's chain," said the
duke. "Send him back to the slavery he finds
the worst."

This duke was a humorist. An old
merchant of Naples, named Morelli, who had
realised a splendid fortune, formed a resolution
never, on any occasion, to lose sight of the walls
of the city that had witnessed his growing
prosperity. He was a man of great fixity of
purpose, and, fully content with his means, was
beyond the reach of temptation; nevertheless,
the duke set himself the task of overcoming
this fancy. With profound knowledge of human
nature, he sent Morelli an edict from the king,
forbidding him, under the penalty of a thousand
crowns, ever to cross the frontier of the kingdom.
Morelli laughed heartily at an order
that chimed harmoniously with his own inclination.
The joke was not less relished by his
friends, and many were the pleasant allusions
to the superfluous severity of the duke.
Somehow, these jests at length lost their raciness,
Morelli ceased to smile, and found himself
perpetually recurring to conjecture! What could
possibly be the object of the government in
placing this singular restraint upon the
movements of a peaceful and loyal citizen? A
thousand ideas haunted his mind. He began to
lose sleep and health, and, in place of these,
came a morbid desire to do the very thing that
had been so strangely prohibited. He gave it
way. Sending a thousand crowns to the duke,
Morelli threw himself into his carriage, and
travelled into the Papal States. He remained
but one night, and then returned to Naples.
Informed of his return, the duke sent five
hundred crowns to the public hospital, and
remitted the other half of the penalty to Morelli,
with the words, "Nitimur in vetitum"
("Opposition augments desire"); adding, that the five
hundred crowns had sufficed to teach the public
how to deal with a madman.

The records of French law present us with
the following remarkable case: A worker in
tapestry sought to recover from a lady a certain
sum for goods supplied. He was his own
lawyer, and availed himself of the opportunity to
make a speech of such unnecessary length, that
the fair defendant, out of all patience, broke in:

"Gentlemen, permit me to explain the matter