in the shade of the laurels is no less than before; while the appetite of the company for conversation is rather whetted than blunted by their previous discussions. The wise course is, therefore, to sit down again; and after casting about for some time in search of a subject, and much interchange of compliments, which, however appropriate to a hot day in Florence, might be found tedious in a brisker climate, they light at last upon Duke Alexander, whose murder by his cousin, Lorenzo de Medici, the unworthy namesake of a great ancestor, was fresh in all their minds.

Domenichi is the leader of the conversation. His training and position as a scholar and a historian have enabled him to collect a mass of information about Duke Alexander, in whose actions he finds not only vivacity of spirit, but also incredible care for the State, inestimable piety, royal justice, and a degree of love towards his subjects which was nothing less than supernatural. And first for his care concerning the public welfare.

It was customary in Florence after a bad harvest to appoint officers whose duty it was by every exertion to keep down the price of corn. They were to make inquisitions, to discover where corn was being hoarded, and to insist on the stores being immediately thrown on the market. Nothing enraged the duke more than any such development of self-interest as constitutes what is now, in commercial jargon, known as "a corner;" and his indignation was therefore extreme when it reached his ears that the Commission of Plenty were themselves hoarding grain, and counting on the profit of a rising market. The consequence was that the price of corn was already half as much again as it need be; and the duke sent in hot haste for the commissioners. "What is your duty?" he asked them roughly, when they arrived; and when they answered that it was to provide for the public during seasons of scarcity, he asked again: "If so, how is it that you 532

LIVING AGE.

VOL. XI.

high? Can you say you thought that my wish?" "Signor," they answered humbly enough, "it was the bad harvest which was to blame." But the duke would have none of it. "Once for all," he said, "I tell you thus. The market must be fully supplied at not more than four grossi the bushel. I will have it so," stopping the excuses which he saw forming themselves. "You do your duty, and be wise." The commissioners were wise, and the thing was done. In the same season or in another equally bad, the duke had laid up great stores of corn for public use; and being by no means desirous that private persons should retain their stores until his own were spent, he issued proclamations early in March calling upon every one who had grain to sell it in that month, and ordaining that any one who sold after March had expired should forfeit the grain, and stand the loss. Now there was a certain favorite of the duke, a man much about his person, who fancied himself able to influence his sovereign to his own advantage. This man had a huge quantity of corn lying in his barns; and, seeing that the market price was still low, he made up his mind to disregard the proclamation, and trust to escaping the penalty by his friendship with the duke. Time passed, and the price of corn rose. But when May was near at hand the Commissioners of Plenty swooped down suddenly on the courtier, and sequestrated all the corn lying in his barns. Full of wrath, this man of commercial instincts ran to the palace, and told his story to the duke, enforcing it with a plain statement that if his Highness did not allow him to sell the corn, it would be impossible for him to maintain his station about the court. The duke professed great sorrow at hearing this. "But how has it happened?" he asked. "Did you not see the proclamations?" "Yes, but at that time the price was so low that I could do nothing with it." "The devil!" exclaimed the duke. "Pray what did you want to do? To besiege Florence,

more." That period Duke Alexander passed in making inquiries as to the real position of the merchant; and hav

There was a certain citizen in Florence who had contracted a good many debts, not through misfortune but through simple disinclination to pay. He was very rich, but concealed that fact as much as possible; and by representing himself to the Council as a poor man well-nigh crushed with misfortunes, had obtained from them a letter protecting him from arrest. Among his creditors was a poor widow, who had placed in his hands the chief part of her small provision for life, but could get neither interest nor principal from him. She importuned him for payment; but he, emboldened by impunity, began to deny that he had ever known her. Then the widow resorted to the law-courts. Her case was plain: the merchant made no defence; and sentence was delivered in the widow's favor. The merchant ignored it; and finding that he did so, the widow took steps to have him arrested. The officers of the law found him in his house, and were about to lay hands on him, when he suddenly drew forth his letter of protection, flourished it in their faces, and discomfited them. There was but one course left, and the woman took it. She went to the duke, who listened to her story patiently, and being satisfied of its truth, sent a secretary to the merchant bidding him do what was right. The secretary returned with a plausible answer; but nothing was done, and in a few days the widow came again to say she was as far as ever from getting her money. "Why do you not have him arrested?" asked the duke. "How can I, signor, when the Council protects him?" "Then he cannot have the means of paying," the duke argued. "On the contrary, he is very rich; and nothing but his avarice led him to seek protection." "It is a strange case," said the duke. "Come back to me in six days

summoned the man to the palace, and requested him courteously to discharge his debt, representing that it would be a pleasure to himself to know the poor woman had her rights. The merchant declared he would pay her shortly, but added that he was a poor man, and could not do it at the moment. He left the duke, assuring him that the money would be paid ere long; but when the widow returned to the palace at the end of the stipulated period, the duke found she had heard nothing from her debtor. Instantly he called a page, saying sharply: "Find the man who is in debt to this poor woman, and bring him here at once." His manner was so stern that the page lost not a moment on the way, but brought back the merchant in less time than one might have thought possible. The duke was standing by the fire, his cloak thrown about his shoulders, for he was going to mass, and waited only to despatch the business which he had in hand; and as he stood, he was raking among the coals and ashes with a stick. "So," said he, when he saw the defaulting citizen enter, "then you have not yet paid this poor woman?" "Oh, signor, I am too poor," was the reply. "Too poor!" broke in the woman, "too poor! Then sell your farms in this place, your stores of corn in that, your olive-trees, and all your other wealth, and pay me what you justly owe!" The duke listened with a smile, and, drawing his stick out from the fire, he traced a circle on the floor with the blackened end. "Get into that space," he said, and the merchant obeyed. "Now," said the duke, "you shall not come outside that circle until you have paid the widow. If you do, I will cut off your head." "Signor, signor!" protested the frightened man. "I shall have to stay here forever." "On the contrary," said the duke calmly. "I am now going to mass; if I find you here when I return, be assured that I will hang you." The duke departed. The merchant, half dead

"Less violence," observes Mannini, "would not have answered with one so pig-headed." Mannini is fond of dropping pregnant remarks, sometimes couched in language so sententious as to be a little over the heads of his companions. Perhaps Ricoveri suspected him of some such design to elaborate the present occasion; for he proceeded to suggest that in the enjoyment of this banquet of the mind which Domenichi had spread before them, it would be well not to forget that their bodies too had needs. Dinner-time was near, and they could finish talking about the duke afterwards. Whereupon they all adjourned to Ricoveri's house, where they dined sumptuously, and then separated, some to play at various gentle games, others to sleep away the hot hours in cool, silent chambers. Late in the afternoon they met again on the balcony of the house, whence there was a wide view over the valley beyond Florence, rich with waving cornfields. There these incorrigible talkers fell into an argument as to whether nature or art were the mightier; and they would probably have spent the whole day over that interesting topic had not Ricoveri, who seemed to care little which view was correct, recalled them to the duke. Domenichi was again installed in the seat of honor, and the others crowded round him to listen.

Long ago there came to Florence in his youth a velvet-maker from Bergamo, who opened a shop, and, aided by fortune and his own good sense, became very rich. He had neither wife nor child; and thus in his old age, being without any incentive to continue his work, he sold his shop, and retired to a pleasant house near Florence, where he spent his time in good works. The life which he had renounced still held his interests, however, and he constantly visited an old friend, also a velvet-maker, who still retained his

The

touch with a rich man who had no pressing claims upon his wealth. Indeed the fact that his old gossip had hardly any use for his money so impressed itself on this astute merchant, that he began to ponder some scheme by which that money could be worthily employed; and having at last thought the matter out he assumed a very mournful air whenever he was in his old friend's society. The old man did not fail to notice this melancholy, and was made the more anxious by it, since all his questions as to its cause were deftly turned aside. Days passed, and the merchant's gloom increased; at last so deep did it become that the old man, who had a kindly heart and a very strong regard for his former fellowtradesman, took him out to dinner at his house one day, and as they sat at table in the garden, pressed and even conjured him to disclose its cause, professing himself ready to do anything in his power to remove the distress which was oppressing so good a man. merchant had hooked his fish, but he was too clever to bring him to land at once. So he returned evasive answers, assumed a semblance of gaiety, and even told his friend one or two pointless little stories which the old man knew quite well already. By these devices, varied by occasional relapses into deep melancholy, he worked up his friend's curiosity to the highest pitch, and when he judged the proper moment to have come, he declared he was half dead with anxiety about his business, being afraid that he would have to close his shop and accept disgrace. Some time ago, it appeared, he had bought stock worth eight hundred scudi. He had paid three hundred and fifty down at the time, and had left the remainder to stand over, relying on getting in moneys which were due to him. But he had not been paid those moneys,-Florence was full of dishonest fellows!-the time was at hand when he must complete the payment for his velvets, and he was at his wits' ends. He would not have distressed his colleague by telling him this, he added, if he had not been so

urgently pressed. The good old man was greatly concerned. "Don't despair, gossip," he said. "God will not desert you. Stay here till I return." He ran off to the house, and came back with a bag, in which was the greater part of the money he had obtained from the sale of his shop. There was a broken pillar standing near, and on it the old man counted out four hundred and fifty scudi, saying, "Take them for six or eight months at your convenience." He knew his old friend too well to ask for a receipt; such formalities were not necessary where both parties trusted each other. The merchant overwhelmed his friend with thanks, and went home gaily, protesting he had never until that moment known the worth of true affection. Time passed; the six months or eight months for which the money had been lent sped by, but nothing was said about returning it. The old man wondered, but felt a delicacy in reminding his friend of the transaction. Eighteen months slipped away, however, and at last he reminded the other gently that the term fixed for repaying the money was long past. "Money!" answered the merchant, with a puzzled expression. "What money are you talking of?" "What money? Why the scudi which I lent you in my garden." "Upon my word," the man of velvets protested with every appearance of good faith, "I think you must be jesting. I have not the least idea what you are speaking of, nor did I ever accept money from you without failing to return it promptly." The old man continued with rising indignation to assert his claim, but without the least success, and finally the other pushed him out of his shop, saying peevishly: "There, go away in God's name, before I do or say anything I shall be sorry for."

Thus insulted and swindled, the old man betook himself to the duke, in whose justice and resource he felt that his last hope lay of recovering his money. The duke after listening to his story, made inquiries of those who knew the other party to the transaction.

Of the honest old man he had some

having

were

personal knowledge; and thoroughly satisfied himself from their antecedents which was likely to be the liar, he caused them to be confronted in his presence. When he saw the merchant enter, the old man, who had been instructed what to do, formally demanded his money, and was answered exactly as before. On this the duke interposed, saying he knew the old man well, and was assured he would not claim a debt which was not due to him. "Pray, therefore," said he in his most gracious manner, "pray therefore let him have the money." "I vow I never had it," cried the merchant; and at this the old man lost patience, and both adversaries, forgetting the duke's presence, raised their voices at once, and began to dispute loudly and angrily. "Was there absolutely no one present when you lent the money?" the duke asked. "No, signor, we alone," the creditor answered; "there was nothing near us except the broken shaft of a pillar on which I told the money out." "Excellent!" cried the duke. "Fetch me that pillar; I will get the truth out of it." Off ran the simple old man, while the duke, ordering the dishonest merchant to wait, turned to other business. After a little while, not looking up from the papers he was reading, he observed carelessly, "What a long time our friend takes in fetching that pillar!" "Signor, he could scarcely be back yet; the pillar is large and heavy." The duke said nothing, but glanced up over his papers, and fixed a piercing look upon the merchant, who, being quite acute enough to see that he had betrayed too much knowledge of the pillar, grew more and more uneasy. He felt himself in the duke's power; he did not feel certain what was at the bottom of this business of the pillar. The silence weighed on him; from time to time he found the duke's eyes fixed on his, as if he read the lie clearly in them. At last Duke Alexander spoke again, as if to himself: "What sort of men are these to lend money without any kind of receipt or witness to the transaction!" And then, turning on the merchant quickly, he