y of the matters that I read, so different from all those
with which I had been allowed to become acquainted hitherto.

There followed Tacitus, and after him Cicero and Livy, which latter two
I found less arresting; then came Lucretius, and his De Rerum Naturae
proved a succulent dish to my inquisitive appetite.

But the cream and glory of the ancient writers I had yet to taste. My
first acquaintance with the poets came from the translation of Virgil
upon which Messer Caro was at the time engaged. He had definitely taken
up his residence in Piacenza, whither it was said that Farnese, his
master, who was to be made our Duke, would shortly come. And in the
interval of labouring for Farnese, as Caro was doing, he would toil at
his translation, and from time to time he would bring sheaves of his
manuscript to the doctor's house, to read what he had accomplished.

He came, I remember, one languid afternoon in August, when I had been
with Messer Fifanti for close upon three months, during which time my
mind had gradually, yet swiftly, been opening out like a bud under the
sunlight of much new learning. We sat in the fine garden behind the
house, on the lawn, in the shade of mulberry trees laden with yellow
translucent fruit, by a pond that was all afloat with water-lilies.

There was a crescent-shaped seat of hewn marble, over which Messer
Gambara, who was with us, had thrown his scarlet cardinal's cloak, the
day being oppressively hot. He was as usual in plain, walking clothes,
and save for the ring on his finger and the cross on his breast, you
had never conceived him an ecclesiastic. He sat near his cloak, upon
the marble seat, and beside him sat Monna Giuliana, who was all in white
save for the gold girdle at her waist.

Caro, himself, stood to read, his bulky manuscript in his hands. Against
the sundial, facing the poet, leaned the tall figure of Messer Fifanti,
his bald head uncovered and shining humidly, his eyes ever and anon
stealing a look at his splendid wife where she sat so demurely at the
prelate's side.

Myself, I lay on the grass near the pond, my hand trailing in the cool
water, and at first I was not greatly interested. The heat of the day
and the circumstance that we had dined, when played upon by the poet's
booming and somewhat monotonous voice, had a lulling effect from which
I was in danger of falling asleep. But anon, as the narrative warmed
and quickened, the danger was well overpast. I was very w