iumphs of this century: the names of the Bardi, father and son,
might have been held reverently on the lips of scholars in the ages to
come; not on account of frivolous verses or philosophical treatises,
which are superfluous and presumptuous attempts to imitate the
inimitable, such as allure vain men like Panhormita, and from which even
the admirable Poggio did not keep himself sufficiently free; but because
we should have given a lamp whereby men might have studied the supreme
productions of the past. For why is a young man like Poliziano (who was
not yet born when I was already held worthy to maintain a discussion
with Thomas of Sarzana) to have a glorious memory as a commentator on
the Pandects--why is Ficino, whose Latin is an offence to me, and who
wanders purblind among the superstitious fancies that marked the decline
at once of art, literature, and philosophy, to descend to posterity as
the very high priest of Platonism, while I, who am more than their
equal, have not effected anything but scattered work, which will be
appropriated by other men? Why? but because my son, whom I had brought
up to replenish my ripe learning with young enterprise, left me and all
liberal pursuits that he might lash himself and howl at midnight with
besotted friars--that he might go wandering on pilgrimages befitting men
who know of no past older than the missal and the crucifix?--left me
when the night was already beginning to fall on me."

In these last words the old man's voice, which had risen high in
indignant protest, fell into a tone of reproach so tremulous and
plaintive that Romola, turning her eyes again towards the blind aged
face, felt her heart swell with forgiving pity. She seated herself by
her father again, and placed her hand on his knee--too proud to obtrude
consolation in words that might seem like a vindication of her own
value, yet wishing to comfort him by some sign of her presence.

"Yes, Romola," said Bardo, automatically letting his left-hand, with its
massive prophylactic rings, fall a little too heavily on the delicate
blue-veined back of the girl's right, so that she bit her lip to prevent
herself from starting. "If even Florence only is to remember me, it can
but be on the same ground that it will remember Niccolo Niccoli--because
I forsook the vulgar pursuit of wealth in commerce that I might devote
myself to collecting the precious remains of ancient art and wisdom, and
leave them, after the exampl