On the discovery of the twelve come- | transcriptions. But the wonderful disdies of Plautus in 1429,- for up till that covery of Gutenberg suddenly opened time only eight were supposed to exist the spring, and diffused the long-pent-up copies of the manuscript had immediately waters of learning over the civilized to be made for the several Houses of world. Visconti, of Este, and of the Medici. It is further related as a proof of the esteem in which these treasures of classical learning were held by the princes, that a manuscript of Livy's Annals, sent by Cosmo de' Medici to Alfonso, King of Naples, sufficed to appease a quarrel between them; though the king was counselled by his physicians to examine it carefully lest Cosmo should have introduced poison between the leaves.*

Printing could not have been invented at a more propitious moment for the perfecting of this wondrous art. The especial circumstances of the age caused it to be universally appreciated, and it seemed to crown the joint labours of the princes and learned men with a success which, in their wildest dreams, they could not have expected to attain.

Although Germany must fairly claim the honour of this great invention, it has never been questioned that Italy was the first to follow in her footsteps; and it is

But none of the princes of this time deserves so much praise as an encourager of learning as Nicholas V. (Thomas Sar-worthy of notice how quickly she adopted zana), who became Pope in 1447. He founded the Vatican Library, and left it at his death enriched with 5,000 volumes, a treasure far exceeding that of any other collection in Europe. Every scholar who needed maintenance, found it at the Court of Rome, and the works of several Greek authors were translated into Latin, by order of Pope Nicholas V.t

Almost all the works of the classical authors were either found in Italy or elsewhere by Italians, and the enthusiasm which had been shown in collecting manuscripts next took the form of bestowing them in those magnificent libraries which are among the great wonders of Italy. Niccolo Niccoli, a Florentine of eminent learning, first conceived the idea, and founded the first public library in the convent of the S. Spirito at Florence, of which Boccaccio's private collection of books was the germ, he having left them as a legacy to that convent. From this eventually sprang the famous Medicean library, only one among many of the princely libraries of Italy.

The fall of the Eastern Empire towards the middle of this century compelled the Greeks in considerable numbers to seek a refuge in Italy, when they further disclosed those immortal monuments of their language which the Crusades had been the first means of revealing to the European mind. Thus a new and still more powerful stimulus was given to the general desire for information.

This thirst was very partially relieved while the fountain of learning continued to trickle out, drop by drop, through the difficult and costly channels of copies and

Tiraboschi, Storia della Letteratura Italiana vol. vi. p. 126.

† Hallam, Lit. of Europe, vol. i. p. 143. LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 263

and succeeded in appropriating to herself the invention of another country. This was only natural. Abundantly rich in her own talents, she had no cause to envy a foreign discovery, and at that moment of supreme activity of mind she did not hesitate to adopt the new invention, although it did not originate with her. On the contrary, nursed and cherished in the centre of art and learning, printing soon reached its highest perfection.

The rude wooden movable characters, Gutenberg's great discovery and improvement on the still ruder engraved blocks of wood, from which the so-called "blockbooks" were printed, and which was the earliest form of the art *— were now discarded for types cut by the artist-hand of a Francia; men of profound erudition and cultivated talents were employed to select and revise the manuscripts about to be printed; while princes were willing to devote much of their wealth, and even to sacrifice a portion of their territories, to this new and wonderful method for the diffusion of knowledge.

Thus when Aldo Manuzio, who may be rightly called the father of Italian typography, first set up his printing-press in Venice, it was Alberto Pio, Prince of Carpi, who defrayed the costs whose family name of " Pio " Aldo was permitted to bear, on account of the great affection and intimacy which existed between them, and by it the princes of Italy will always be associated with the first great printer of their country.

Before proceeding to speak of Aldo, whose life and works are more generally known, some few words should be said

"Men be such a terrible class of society between the two-rather cruelly used to look at a body." and rather reserved."

66

"O dear no, miss I can't change to between the two!" "That's most likely."

"Well, yes, so it is. I am convinced it

"But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon me." The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. "A is most likely. You may take my word, very good-looking man," she continued, miss, that that's what's the matter with "upright; about forty, I should think. him." Do you know at all who he could be?" Liddy couldn't think.

"Can't you guess at all?" said Bathsheba with some disappointment.

"I haven't a notion; besides, 'tis no difference, since he took less notice of you than any of the rest. Now, if he'd taken more, it would have mattered a great deal."

Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along still more rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed them.

Why, there he is!" she said. Liddy looked. "That! That's Farmer Boldwood - of course 'tis the man you couldn't see the other day when he called."

"He's an interesting man think so?" she remarked. "O yes, very. Everybody owns it," replied Liddy.

"I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far away from all he sees around him."

"It is said- but not known for certain - that he met with some bitter disappointment when he was a young man and merry. A woman jilted him, they say."

66

People always say that-and we know very well women scarcely ever jilt men; 'tis the men who jilt us. I expect it is simply his nature to be so reserved." "Simply his nature I expect so, miss -nothing else in the world."

"Still, tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor thing! Perhaps, after all, he has."

"Depend upon it he has. O, yes, miss, he has. I feel he must have."

CHAPTER XIII.

SORTES SANCTORUM: THE VALENTINE.

Ir was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of February. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy pile was dreary in winter-time before the candles were lighted and the shutters closed; the atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the walls; every nook behind the furniture had a temperature of its own, for the fire was not kindled in this part of the house early in the day; and Bathsheba's new piano, which was an old one in other annals, looked particularly sloping and out of level on the warped floor before night threw a shade over its less prominent angles and hid the unpleasantness. Liddy, like a little brook, though shallow, was always rippling; her presence had not so much weight as to task thought, and yet enough to exercise it.

On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather: Liddy looking at it said,

"Did you ever find out, Miss, who you are going to marry by means of the Bible and Key?"

"Don't be so foolish, Liddy. As if such things could be."

"Well, there's a good deal in it all the same."

"Nonsense, child."

"And it makes your heart beat fearfully. Some believe in it; some don't; I do."

66

Very well, let's try it," said Bathsheba, bounding from her seat with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at once. "Go and get the front door key." Liddy fetched it. "I wish it wasn't Sunday," she said, on returning. "Perhaps 'tis wrong."

"What's right week days is right Sundays," replied her companion in a tone which was a proof in itself.

The book was opened the leaves,

--

drab with age, being quite worn away at much-read verses by the fore-fingers of unpractised readers in former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to the vision. The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly thrilled and abashed her. It was Wisdom in the abstract facing Folly in the concrete. Folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention, and placed the key on the Book. A rusty patch immediately upon the verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the purpose.

"Now keep steady, and be silent," said Bathsheba.

seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right.

"Well, no. It is only for little Teddy Coggan. I have promised him something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Liddy, you may as well bring me my desk and I'll direct it at once."

Bathsheba took from her desk a gor geously illuminated and embossed design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous market-day at the chief stationer's in Casterbridge. In the centre was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion than any generalities by a printer could possibly be.

"Here is a place for writing," said Bathsheba. "What shall I put ?"

66

Something of this sort, I should

The verse was repeated; the Book turned round; Bathsheba blushed guilt-think," returned Liddy promptly:

ily.

"Who did you try?" said Liddy curiously.

"I shall not tell you." "Did you notice Mr. Boldwood's doings in church this morning, miss?" Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had taken. "No, indeed," said Bathsheba, with serene indifference.

"His pew is exactly opposite yours,

miss."

Certainly I did not, I tell you." Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively.

This move was unexpected, and proportionally disconcerting. "What did he do?" Bathsheba said perforce.

"Didn't turn his head to look at you once all the service."

"Why should he?" again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look. "I didn't ask him to."

The rose is red,
The violet blue,
Carnation's sweet,

And so are you.

"Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child like him," said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small though legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped her pen for the direction.

"What fun it would be to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and how he would wonder!" said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eyebrows, and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought of the moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated.

Bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length. Boldwood's had begun to be a troublesome image — a species of Daniel in her kingdom who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common sense said that he might just as well "O no. But everybody else was no- follow suit with the rest, and afford her ticing you; and it was odd he didn't. the official glance of admiration which There, 'tis like him. Rich and gentle-cost nothing at all. She was far from manly, what does he care? being seriously concerned about his nonBathsheba dropped into a silence in- conformity. Still, it was faintly depresstended to express that she had opinions|ing that the most dignified and valuable on the matter too abstruse for Liddy's man in the parish should withhold his comprehension, rather than that she had eyes, and that a girl like Liddy should nothing to say. talk about it. So Liddy's idea was at first rather harassing than piquant.

"Dear me - I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday," she exclaimed at length.

"Valentine! who for, miss?" said Liddy. "Farmer Boldwood?"

It was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just at this moment

66

No, I won't do that. He wouldn't see any humour in it."

"He'd worry to death," said the persistent Liddy.

"Really, I don't care particularly to send it to Teddy," remarked her mis

tress. "He's rather a naughty child and as he eat and drank he still read in sometimes." fancy the words thereon, although they were too remote for his sight,

66 Yes that he is."

"Let's toss, as men do," said Bathsheba, idly. "Now then, head, Boldwood; tail, Teddy. No, we won't toss money on a Sunday, that would be tempting the devil indeed.'

Toss this hymn book; there can't be no sinfulness in that, miss.'

"Very well. Open, Boldwood shut, Teddy; no, it's more likely to fall open. Open, Teddy-shut, Boldwood."

The book went fluttering in the air and came down shut.

The pert injunction was like those crystal substances, which, colourless themselves, assume the tone of objects about them. Here, in the quiet of Boldwood's parlour, where everything that was not grave was extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a Puritan Sunday lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed their tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity, imbibed from their acces

Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with off-hand serenity directed the missive to Bold-sories now. wood.

"Now light a candle, Liddy. Which seal shall we use? Here's a unicorn's head - there's nothing in that. What's this? two doves - no. It ought to be something extraordinary, ought it not, Lidd? Here's one with a motto - I remember it is some funny one, but I can't read it. We'll try this, and if it doesn't

do we'll have another."

A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at the hot wax

to discover the words.

66

Capital!" she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolicsomely. "Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and clerk too."

Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and read

"Marry me.'

The same evening the letter was sent, and was duly sorted in Casterbridge postoffice that night, to be returned to Weatherbury again in the morning.

So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done. Of love as a spectacle Bathsheba had a fair knowledge: but of love subjectively she knew nothing.

CHAPTER XIV.

EFFECT OF THE LETTER: SUNRISE.

Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Boldwood had felt the spherical completeness of his existence heretofore to be slowly spreading into an abnormal distortion in the particular direction of an ideal passion. The disturbance was as the first floating weed to Columbus-the contemptibly little suggesting possibilities of the infinitely great.

It

The letter must have had an origin and a motive. That the latter was of the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all, Boldwood, of course, did not know. And such an explanation did not strike him as a possibility even. is foreign to a mystified condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the very dissimilar processes of approving a course suggested by circumstance, and striking out a course from inner impulse and intention purely, would look the same in the result. The vast difference between starting a train of events, and directing into a particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the person confounded by the issue.

When Boldwood went to bed, he placed the valentine in the corner of the looking-glass. He was conscious of its presence, even when his back was turned upon it. It was the first time in Boldwood's life that such an event had occurred. The same fascination that caused

Ar dusk, on the evening of St. Valen-him to think it an act which had a delibtine's Day, Boldwood sat down to supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs. Upon the mantel-shelf before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread eagle, and upon the eagle's wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent. Here the bachelor's gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large red seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye;

erate motive prevented him from regarding it as an impertinence. He looked again at the direction. The mysterious influences of night invested the writing with the presence of the unknown writer. Somebody's some woman's hand had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name: her unrevealed eyes had watched every curve as she formed it:

her brain had seen him in imagination | where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease the while. Why should she have im- on Weatherbury Upper Farm, and apagined him? Her mouth- were the parently resting upon the ridge, the only lips red or pale, plump or creased?— had half of the sun yet visible burnt incandescurved itself to a certain expression as cent and rayless, like a red and flamethe pen went on the corners had moved less fire shining over a white hearthwith all their natural tremulousness: stone. The whole effect resembled a what had been the expression? sunset as childhood resembles age.