Sixtus the Fifth showed himself. Besides that the
entire course of his life and habits was such as to
render any strong and vigorous occupant of St.
Peter's chair especially obnoxious to him, he had
the consciousness of having first deeply injured
the Pope in the most cruel manner, and then
recently insulted him by a most audacious defiance
of his authority. It was with no easy mind,
therefore, that the prince presented himself at
the first general reception, when all the lay and
ecclesiastical notabilities of Rome went to kiss
the foot of their new sovereign. He had
counted on observing narrowly the Pope's
manner to him when he should, in his turn,
kneel before him, and say his few words of
compliment, and judging thence how far Rome might
be a safe home for him for the future. Sixtus
showed no sign of anger, but he made no word
of answer to Orsini's address. The omen was
considered rather a discouraging one. It reminds
one of the showman, who, when his head was
in the lion's mouth, said, "If he wags his tail I
am a lost man." Orsini thought that the Pope
had for a moment glanced sternly at him; and
there was an anxious consideration whether this
glance was to be deemed equivalent to the wag
of the lion's tail. It was decided that the omen
was not sufficiently clear; and the prince
determined on learning with greater certainty what
he had to expect from the new pope, before he
made up his mind as to his own line of
conduct.

He made application, therefore, for a private
audience, which was at once granted him; and
on an appointed day, having, as the historians
tell us, learned by heart the speech he meant to
address to the Pope, he presented himself for
the third time before the old man whose nephew
he had murdered, and who knew that he was the
murderer, while on his part Orsini was perfectly
aware that he knew it. The interview must have
been one which a student of human character
and passions would have liked (safely ensconced
out of harm's way behind some curtain in the
audience chamber) to have witnessed. We must
picture to ourselves Sixtus, upright and rigid,
on his seat of state, somewhat stem of eye and
feature, but calm, impassible, perfectly self-
possessed, and utterly inscrutable in his
unimpassioned gravity. The unwieldy monster of
bloated corpulence before him performs the
ceremonial kiss on the sacred slipper, as we may well
suppose, with scarcely less physical trouble and
difficulty than mental scorn and rebellious pride.
The arrogant and lawless ruffian noble stands
cowed before the stern old man, and begins, not
without visible signs of being ill at ease, his
crammed speech.

He congratulated Sixtus on having attained a
dignity which, &c. &c., prosperity of the time,
pride of Rome, and happiness of the entire
world, &c. &c.

Sixtus sat silent, and made no sign.

Orsini was forced to recommence, and this
time congratulated himself on the happiness of
living under so gracious, so clement, and worthy
a sovereign.

Still the Pope neither moved a muscle nor
breathed a sound.

The culprit's mind misgave him more and
more; he became evidently disconcerted, and,
as the historian writes, "his tongue vacillated."
Yet it was impossible to stand silent while that
cold, grave eye was bent upon him, as waiting to
hear the real business on which he had sought
an audience, and he essayed to falter something
about offering himself and all his power and
influence to his sovereign.

Then at length Sixtus spoke.

"What your deeds have been," he said, "to
me and mine, Duke of Bracciano, your own
conscience is now telling you, quite as well as I could
do. But reassure yourself! That which has been
done against Francesco Peretti, or against Felix,
Cardinal di Montalto, I pardon you, as fully and
as surely as I warn you to hope for no pardon for
aught which shall henceforward be done against
Sixtus. Go, clear your house and your estates of
the lawless followers and bandits that you feed
and give asylum to. Go! and obey!"

The last words were accompanied by one of
those terrible lightning glances which all the
historians of this remarkable man speak of as
having had power to make the stoutest heart
quail. The haughtiest and most masterful
of Rome's lawless barons slunk from the
Mendicant monk's presence like a whipped cur.

INVENTORS AND INVENTIONS.

IS it true that the world has never known its
greatest men? Have all its benefactors been
ignored and despised; or rather, have not some
occasionally found timely recognition and fitting
reward? Human nature is stubborn, and men
are unwilling to be turned out of their own
way; but the hardest natures gradually soften
into a new mould if pressed long enough, and
the most wilful feet take to unaccustomed
paths after those paths have been well trodden
by their neighbours. Every new invention has
had its own special fight before it could get its
hearing. Who recognises the prince in the
beggar? Who sees the full-fledged eagle in that
ordinary looking and somewhat unprepossessing
egg? Who could always foretel that the
new invention, untried and unproved, was a
world's blessing in disguise, an embryo helper
forward of humanity? We do not wish to
uphold ignorance in any form, but we must be just;
and really those various Mr. Bat's Eyes may be
pardoned for not seeing all that Christiana and
Mercy set out to seek. Besides, every inventor
has not been wronged by his generation: some
have, and most grievously, but not all. We will
follow the course taken by Mr. John Timbs, in
his new book, Stories of Inventors and their
Discoveries; and, for every persecuted
benefactor of society, we will find at the least
two who met their reward.

We begin with Archimedes, as of course. For,
though the Pyramids were built, and the
monoliths raised; though the huge caves of Elephanta
and the City of Petræa had been hewn out of the