Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes

RIENZI,

The Last of the Roman Tribunes

by

Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.

Then turn we to her latest Tribune’s name,

From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,

Redeemer of dark centuries of shame--

The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy--

Rienzi, last of Romans! While the tree

Of Freedom’s wither’d trunk puts forth a leaf,

Even for thy tomb a garland let it be--

The Forum’s champion, and the People’s chief--

Her new-born Numa thou!

Childe Harold, cant. iv. stanza 114.

Amidst the indulgence of enthusiasm and eloquence, Petrarch,

Italy, and Europe, were astonished by a revolution, which

realized for a moment his most splendid visions.--Gibbon,

chap. 1xx.

Dedication of Rienzi.

To Alessandro Manzoni, as to the Genius of the Place,

Are Dedicated These Fruits, gathered on The Soil of Italian Fiction.

London, Dec. 1, 1835.

Dedication,

Prefixed to the First Collected Edition of the Author’s Works in 1840.

My Dear Mother,

In inscribing with your beloved and honoured name this Collection of my

Works, I could wish that the fruits of my manhood were worthier of the

tender and anxious pains bestowed upon my education in youth.

Left yet young, and with no ordinary accomplishments and gifts, the sole

guardian of your sons, to them you devoted the best years of your useful

and spotless life; and any success it be their fate to attain in the

paths they have severally chosen, would have its principal sweetness

in the thought that such success was the reward of one whose hand aided

every struggle, and whose heart sympathized in every care.

From your graceful and accomplished taste, I early learned that

affection for literature which has exercised so large an influence

over the pursuits of my life; and you who were my first guide, were my

earliest critic. Do you remember the summer days, which seemed to me

so short, when you repeated to me those old ballads with which Percy

revived the decaying spirit of our national muse, or the smooth couplets

of Pope, or those gentle and polished verses with the composition of

which you had beguiled your own earlier leisure? It was those easy

lessons, far more than the harsher rudiments learned subsequently

in schools, that taught me to admire and to imitate; and in them I

recognise the germ of the flowers, however perishable they be, that I

now bind up and lay upon a shrine hallowed by a thousand memories of

unspeakable affection. Happy, while I borrowed from your taste, could I

have found it not more difficult to imitate your virtues--your spirit of

active and extended benevolence, your cheerful piety, your considerate

justice, your kindly charity--and all the qualities that brighten a

nature more free from the thought of self, than any it has been my lot

to meet with. Never more than at this moment did I wish that my writings

were possessed of a merit which might outlive my time, so that at least

these lines might remain a record of the excellence of the Mother, and

the gratitude of the Son.

E.L.B. London: January 6, 1840.

Preface

to

The First Edition of Rienzi.

I began this tale two years ago at Rome. On removing to Naples, I

threw it aside for “The Last Days of Pompeii,” which required more

than “Rienzi” the advantage of residence within reach of the scenes

described. The fate of the Roman Tribune continued, however, to haunt

and impress me, and, some time after “Pompeii” was published, I renewed

my earlier undertaking. I regarded the completion of these volumes,

indeed, as a kind of duty;--for having had occasion to read the original

authorities from which modern historians have drawn their accounts of

the life of Rienzi, I was led to believe that a very remarkable man had

been superficially judged, and a very important period crudely examined.

(See Appendix, Nos. I and II.) And this belief was sufficiently strong

to induce me at first to meditate a more serious work upon the life and

times of Rienzi. (I have adopted the termination of Rienzi instead of

Rienzo, as being more familiar to the general reader.--But the latter

is perhaps the more accurate reading, since the name was a popular

corruption from Lorenzo.) Various reasons concurred against this

project--and I renounced the biography to commence the fiction. I have

still, however, adhered, with a greater fidelity than is customary

in Romance, to all the leading events of the public life of the Roman

Tribune; and the Reader will perhaps find in these pages a more full

and detailed account of the rise and fall of Rienzi, than in any English

work of which I am aware. I have, it is true, taken a view of his

character different in some respects from that of Gibbon or Sismondi.

But it is a view, in all its main features, which I believe (and think I

could prove) myself to be warranted in taking, not less by the facts of

History than the laws of Fiction. In the meanwhile, as I have given the

facts from which I have drawn my interpretation of the principal agent,

the reader has sufficient data for his own judgment. In the picture of

the Roman Populace, as in that of the Roman Nobles of the fourteenth

century, I follow literally the descriptions left to us;--they are not

flattering, but they are faithful, likenesses.

Preserving generally the real chronology of Rienzi’s life, the plot of

this work extends over a space of some years, and embraces the variety

of characters necessary to a true delineation of events. The story,

therefore, cannot have precisely that order of interest found in

fictions strictly and genuinely dramatic, in which (to my judgment at

least) the time ought to be as limited as possible, and the characters

as few;--no new character of importance to the catastrophe being

admissible towards the end of the work. If I may use the word Epic in

its most modest and unassuming acceptation, this Fiction, in short,

though indulging in dramatic situations, belongs, as a whole, rather to

the Epic than the Dramatic school.

I cannot conclude without rendering the tribute of my praise and homage

to the versatile and gifted Author of the beautiful Tragedy of Rienzi.

Considering that our hero be the same--considering that we had the same

materials from which to choose our several stories--I trust I shall

be found to have little, if at all, trespassed upon ground previously

occupied. With the single exception of a love-intrigue between a

relative of Rienzi and one of the antagonist party, which makes the

plot of Miss Mitford’s Tragedy, and is little more than an episode in my

Romance, having slight effect on the conduct and none on the fate of the

hero, I am not aware of any resemblance between the two works; and even

this coincidence I could easily have removed, had I deemed it the least

advisable:--but it would be almost discreditable if I had nothing that

resembled a performance possessing so much it were an honour to imitate.

In fact, the prodigal materials of the story--the rich and exuberant

complexities of Rienzi’s character--joined to the advantage possessed by

the Novelist of embracing all that the Dramatist must reject (Thus the

slender space permitted to the Dramatist does not allow Miss Mitford to

be very faithful to facts; to distinguish between Rienzi’s earlier and

his later period of power; or to detail the true, but somewhat intricate

causes of his rise, his splendour, and his fall.)--are sufficient to

prevent Dramatist and Novelist from interfering with each other.

London, December 1, 1835.

Preface to the Present Edition, 1848.

From the time of its first appearance, “Rienzi” has had the good fortune

to rank high amongst my most popular works--though its interest is

rather drawn from a faithful narration of historical facts, than from

the inventions of fancy. And the success of this experiment confirms me

in my belief, that the true mode of employing history in the service

of romance, is to study diligently the materials as history; conform to

such views of the facts as the Author would adopt, if he related them

in the dry character of historian; and obtain that warmer interest which

fiction bestows, by tracing the causes of the facts in the characters

and emotions of the personages of the time. The events of his work are

thus already shaped to his hand--the characters already created--what

remains for him, is the inner, not outer, history of man--the chronicle

of the human heart; and it is by this that he introduces a new harmony

between character and event, and adds the completer solution of what is

actual and true, by those speculations of what is natural and probable,

which are out of the province of history, but belong especially to the

philosophy of romance. And--if it be permitted the tale-teller to come

reverently for instruction in his art to the mightiest teacher of all,

who, whether in the page or on the scene, would give to airy fancies the

breath and the form of life,--such, we may observe, is the lesson the

humblest craftsman in historical romance may glean from the Historical

Plays of Shakespeare. Necessarily, Shakespeare consulted history

according to the imperfect lights, and from the popular authorities, of

his age; and I do not say, therefore, that as an historian we can rely

upon Shakespeare as correct. But to that in which he believed he rigidly

adhered; nor did he seek, as lesser artists (such as Victor Hugo and his

disciples) seek now, to turn perforce the Historical into the Poetical,

but leaving history as he found it, to call forth from its arid prose

the flower of the latent poem. Nay, even in the more imaginative plays

which he has founded upon novels and legends popular in his time, it is

curious and instructive to see how little he has altered the original

ground-work--taking for granted the main materials of the story, and

reserving all his matchless resources of wisdom and invention, to

illustrate from mental analysis, the creations whose outline he was

content to borrow. He receives, as a literal fact not to be altered,

the somewhat incredible assertion of the novelist, that the pure and

delicate and highborn Venetian loves the swarthy Moor--and that Romeo

fresh from his “woes for Rosaline,” becomes suddenly enamoured of

Juliet: He found the Improbable, and employed his art to make it

truthful.

That “Rienzi” should have attracted peculiar attention in Italy, is of

course to be attributed to the choice of the subject rather than to the

skill of the Author. It has been translated into the Italian language by

eminent writers; and the authorities for the new view of Rienzi’s times

and character which the Author deemed himself warranted to take, have

been compared with his text by careful critics and illustrious scholars,

in those states in which the work has been permitted to circulate. (In

the Papal States, I believe, it was neither, prudently nor effectually,

proscribed.) I may say, I trust without unworthy pride, that the result

has confirmed the accuracy of delineations which English readers relying

only on the brilliant but disparaging account in Gibbon deemed too

favourable; and has tended to restore the great Tribune to his long

forgotten claims to the love and reverence of the Italian land. Nor, if

I may trust to the assurances that have reached me from many now engaged

in the aim of political regeneration, has the effect of that revival of

the honours due to a national hero, leading to the ennobling study

of great examples, been wholly without its influence upon the rising

generation of Italian youth, and thereby upon those stirring events

which have recently drawn the eyes of Europe to the men and the lands

beyond the Alps.

In preparing for the Press this edition of a work illustrative of the

exertions of a Roman, in advance of his time, for the political freedom

of his country, and of those struggles between contending principles,

of which Italy was the most stirring field in the Middle Ages, it is not

out of place or season to add a few sober words, whether as a student of

the Italian Past, or as an observer, with some experience of the social

elements of Italy as it now exists, upon the state of affairs in that

country.

It is nothing new to see the Papal Church in the capacity of a popular

reformer, and in contra-position to the despotic potentates of the

several states, as well as to the German Emperor, who nominally inherits

the sceptre of the Caesars. Such was its common character under its more

illustrious Pontiffs; and the old Republics of Italy grew up under the

shadow of the Papal throne, harbouring ever two factions--the one for

the Emperor, the one for the Pope--the latter the more naturally

allied to Italian independence. On the modern stage, we almost see the

repetition of many an ancient drama. But the past should teach us to

doubt the continuous and stedfast progress of any single line of policy

under a principality so constituted as that of the Papal Church--a

principality in which no race can be perpetuated, in which no objects

can be permanent; in which the successor is chosen by a select

ecclesiastical synod, under a variety of foreign as well as of national

influences; in which the chief usually ascends the throne at an age

that ill adapts his mind to the idea of human progress, and the active

direction of mundane affairs;--a principality in which the peculiar

sanctity that wraps the person of the Sovereign exonerates him from

the healthful liabilities of a power purely temporal, and directly

accountable to Man. A reforming Pope is a lucky accident, and dull

indeed must be the brain which believes in the possibility of a long

succession of reforming Popes, or which can regard as other than

precarious and unstable the discordant combination of a constitutional

government with an infallible head.

It is as true as it is trite that political freedom is not the growth of

a day--it is not a flower without a stalk, and it must gradually develop

itself from amidst the unfolding leaves of kindred institutions.

In one respect, the Austrian domination, fairly considered, has been

beneficial to the States over which it has been directly exercised, and

may be even said to have unconsciously schooled them to the capacity for

freedom. In those States the personal rights which depend on impartial

and incorrupt administration of the law, are infinitely more secure than

in most of the Courts of Italy. Bribery, which shamefully predominates

in the judicature of certain Principalities, is as unknown in the

juridical courts of Austrian Italy as in England. The Emperor himself is

often involved in legal disputes with a subject, and justice is as

free and as firm for the humblest suitor, as if his antagonist were his

equal. Austria, indeed, but holds together the motley and inharmonious

members of its vast domain on either side the Alps, by a general

character of paternal mildness and forbearance in all that great

circle of good government which lies without the one principle of

constitutional liberty. It asks but of its subjects to submit to be well

governed--without agitating the question “how and by what means that

government is carried on.” For every man, except the politician, the

innovator, Austria is no harsh stepmother. But it is obviously clear

that the better in other respects the administration of a state it does

but foster the more the desire for that political security, which is

only found in constitutional freedom: the reverence paid to personal

rights, but begets the passion for political; and under a mild despotism

are already half matured the germs of a popular constitution. But it is

still a grave question whether Italy is ripe for self-government--and

whether, were it possible that the Austrian domination could be shaken

off--the very passions so excited, the very bloodshed so poured forth,

would not ultimately place the larger portion of Italy under auspices

less favourable to the sure growth of freedom, than those which silently

brighten under the sway of the German Caesar.

The two kingdoms, at the opposite extremes of Italy, to which

circumstance and nature seem to assign the main ascendancy, are Naples

and Sardinia. Looking to the former, it is impossible to discover on

the face of the earth a country more adapted for commercial prosperity.

Nature formed it as the garden of Europe, and the mart of the

Mediterranean. Its soil and climate could unite the products of the East

with those of the Western hemisphere. The rich island of Sicily should

be the great corn granary of the modern nations as it was of the

ancient; the figs, the olives, the oranges, of both the Sicilies, under

skilful cultivation, should equal the produce of Spain and the Orient,

and the harbours of the kingdom (the keys to three-quarters of the

globe) should be crowded with the sails and busy with the life of

commerce. But, in the character of its population, Naples has been

invariably in the rear of Italian progress; it caught but partial

inspiration from the free Republics, or even the wise Tyrannies, of the

Middle Ages; the theatre of frequent revolutions without fruit; and

all rational enthusiasm created by that insurrection, which has lately

bestowed on Naples the boon of a representative system, cannot but be

tempered by the conviction that of all the States in Italy, this is the

one which least warrants the belief of permanence to political freedom,

or of capacity to retain with vigour what may be seized by passion. (If

the Electoral Chamber in the new Neapolitan Constitution, give a

fair share of members to the Island of Sicily, it will be rich in

the inevitable elements of discord, and nothing save a wisdom and

moderation, which cannot soberly be anticipated, can prevent the

ultimate separation of the island from the dominion of Naples. Nature

has set the ocean between the two countries--but differences in

character, and degree and quality of civilisation--national jealousies,

historical memories, have trebled the space of the seas that roll

between them.--More easy to unite under one free Parliament, Spain

with Flanders; or re-annex to England its old domains of Aquitaine

and Normandy--than to unite in one Council Chamber truly popular, the

passions, interests, and prejudices of Sicily and Naples.--Time will

show.)

Far otherwise is it, with Sardinia. Many years since, the writer of

these pages ventured to predict that the time must come when Sardinia

would lead the van of Italian civilisation, and take proud place amongst

the greater nations of Europe. In the great portion of this population

there is visible the new blood of a young race; it is not, as with other

Italian States, a worn-out stock; you do not see there a people

fallen, proud of the past, and lazy amidst ruins, but a people rising,

practical, industrious, active; there, in a word, is an eager youth to

be formed to mature development, not a decrepit age to be restored to

bloom and muscle. Progress is the great characteristic of the Sardinian

state. Leave it for five years; visit it again, and you behold

improvement. When you enter the kingdom and find, by the very skirts of

its admirable roads, a raised footpath for the passengers and travellers

from town to town, you become suddenly aware that you are in a land

where close attention to the humbler classes is within the duties of

a government. As you pass on from the more purely Italian part of

the population,--from the Genoese country into that of Piedmont,--the

difference between a new people and an old, on which I have dwelt,

becomes visible in the improved cultivation of the soil, the better

habitations of the labourer, the neater aspect of the towns, the greater

activity in the thoroughfares. To the extraordinary virtues of the

King, as King, justice is scarcely done, whether in England or abroad.

Certainly, despite his recent concessions, Charles Albert is not and

cannot be at heart, much of a constitutional reformer; and his strong

religious tendencies, which, perhaps unjustly, have procured him in

philosophical quarters the character of a bigot, may link him more than

his political, with the cause of the Father of his Church. But he is

nobly and preeminently national, careful of the prosperity and jealous

of the honour of his own state, while conscientiously desirous of the

independence of Italy. His attention to business, is indefatigable.

Nothing escapes his vigilance. Over all departments of the kingdom is

the eye of a man ever anxious to improve. Already the silk manufactures

of Sardinia almost rival those of Lyons: in their own departments the

tradesmen of Turin exhibit an artistic elegance and elaborate finish,

scarcely exceeded in the wares of London and Paris. The King’s internal

regulations are admirable; his laws, administered with the most

impartial justice--his forts and defences are in that order, without

which, at least on the Continent, no land is safe--his army is the most

perfect in Italy. His wise genius extends itself to the elegant as to

the useful arts--an encouragement that shames England, and even France,

is bestowed upon the School for Painters, which has become one of the

ornaments of his illustrious reign. The character of the main part of

the population, and the geographical position of his country, assist the

monarch and must force on himself, or his successors, in the career

of improvement so signally begun. In the character of the people, the

vigour of the Northman ennobles the ardour and fancy of the West. In

the position of the country, the public mind is brought into constant

communication with the new ideas in the free lands of Europe.

Civilisation sets in direct currents towards the streets and marts of

Turin. Whatever the result of the present crisis in Italy, no power

and no chance which statesmen can predict, can preclude Sardinia from

ultimately heading all that is best in Italy. The King may improve his

present position, or peculiar prejudices, inseparable perhaps from the

heritage of absolute monarchy, and which the raw and rude councils of

an Electoral Chamber, newly called into life, must often irritate and

alarm, may check his own progress towards the master throne of the

Ausonian land. But the people themselves, sooner or later, will do the

work of the King. And in now looking round Italy for a race worthy of

Rienzi, and able to accomplish his proud dreams, I see but one for which

the time is ripe or ripening, and I place the hopes of Italy in the men

of Piedmont and Sardinia.

London, February 14, 1848.

RIENZI, The Last of the Tribunes.

BOOK I. -- THE TIME, THE PLACE, AND THE MEN.

“_Fu da sua gioventudine nutricato di latte di eloquenza; buono

grammatico, megliore rettorico, autorista buono...Oh, come spesso

diceva, ‘Dove sono questi buoni Romani? Dov’e loro somma giustizia?

Poterommi trovare in tempo che questi fioriscano?’ Era bell

‘omo...Accadde che uno suo frate fu ucciso, e non ne fu fatta vendetta

di sua morte: non lo poteo aiutare; pensa lungo mano vendicare ‘l

sangue di suo frate; pensa lunga mano dirizzare la cittate di Roma male

guidata_.”--“Vita di Cola di Rienzi” Ed. 1828. Forli.

“From his youth he was nourished with the milk of eloquence; a good

grammarian, a better rhetorician, well versed in the writings of

authors...Oh, how often would he say, ‘Where are those good Romans?

Where is their supreme justice? Shall I ever behold such times as those

in which they flourished?’ He was a handsome man...It happened that a

brother of his was slain, and no retribution was made for his death:

he could not help him; long did he ponder how to avenge his brother’s

blood; long did he ponder how to direct the ill guided state of

Rome.”--“Life of Cola di Rienzi.”

Chapter 1.I. The Brothers.

The celebrated name which forms the title to this work will sufficiently

apprise the reader that it is in the earlier half of the fourteenth

century that my story opens.

It was on a summer evening that two youths might be seen walking beside

the banks of the Tiber, not far from that part of its winding course

which sweeps by the base of Mount Aventine. The path they had selected

was remote and tranquil. It was only at a distance that were seen the

scattered and squalid houses that bordered the river, from amidst which

rose, dark and frequent, the high roof and enormous towers which marked

the fortified mansion of some Roman baron. On one side of the river,

behind the cottages of the fishermen, soared Mount Janiculum, dark with

massive foliage, from which gleamed at frequent intervals, the grey

walls of many a castellated palace, and the spires and columns of a

hundred churches; on the other side, the deserted Aventine rose abrupt

and steep, covered with thick brushwood; while, on the height, from

concealed but numerous convents, rolled, not unmusically, along the

quiet landscape and the rippling waves, the sound of the holy bell.

Of the young men introduced in this scene, the elder, who might have

somewhat passed his twentieth year, was of a tall and even commanding

stature; and there was that in his presence remarkable and almost noble,

despite the homeliness of his garb, which consisted of the long, loose

gown and the plain tunic, both of dark-grey serge, which distinguished,

at that time, the dress of the humbler scholars who frequented the

monasteries for such rude knowledge as then yielded a scanty return for

intense toil. His countenance was handsome, and would have been rather

gay than thoughtful in its expression, but for that vague and abstracted

dreaminess of eye which so usually denotes a propensity to revery and

contemplation, and betrays that the past or the future is more congenial

to the mind than the enjoyment and action of the present hour.

The younger, who was yet a boy, had nothing striking in his appearance

or countenance, unless an expression of great sweetness and gentleness

could be so called; and there was something almost feminine in the

tender deference with which he appeared to listen to his companion.

His dress was that usually worn by the humbler classes, though somewhat

neater, perhaps, and newer; and the fond vanity of a mother might be

detected in the care with which the long and silky ringlets had been

smoothed and parted as they escaped from his cap and flowed midway down

his shoulders.

As they thus sauntered on, beside the whispering reeds of the river,

each with his arm round the form of his comrade, there was a grace

in the bearing, in the youth, and in the evident affection of the

brothers--for such their connexion--which elevated the lowliness of

their apparent condition.

“Dear brother,” said the elder, “I cannot express to thee how I enjoy

these evening hours. To you alone I feel as if I were not a mere

visionary and idler when I talk of the uncertain future, and build up my

palaces of the air. Our parents listen to me as if I were uttering fine

things out of a book; and my dear mother, Heaven bless her! wipes her

eyes, and says, ‘Hark, what a scholar he is!’ As for the monks, if I

ever dare look from my Livy, and cry ‘Thus should Rome be again!’ they

stare, and gape, and frown, as though I had broached an heresy. But you,

sweet brother, though you share not my studies, sympathize so kindly

with all their results--you seem so to approve my wild schemes, and to

encourage my ambitious hopes--that sometimes I forget our birth, our

fortunes, and think and dare as if no blood save that of the Teuton

Emperor flowed through our veins.”

“Methinks, dear Cola,” said the younger brother, “that Nature played us

an unfair trick--to you she transmitted the royal soul, derived from

our father’s parentage; and to me only the quiet and lowly spirit of my

mother’s humble lineage.”

“Nay,” answered Cola, quickly, “you would then have the brighter

share,--for I should have but the Barbarian origin, and you the Roman.

Time was, when to be a simple Roman was to be nobler than a northern

king.--Well, well, we may live to see great changes!”

“I shall live to see thee a great man, and that will content me,” said

the younger, smiling affectionately; “a great scholar all confess you

to be already: our mother predicts your fortunes every time she hears of

your welcome visits to the Colonna.”

“The Colonna!” said Cola, with a bitter smile; “the Colonna--the

pedants!--They affect, dull souls, the knowledge of the past, play the

patron, and misquote Latin over their cups! They are pleased to welcome

me at their board, because the Roman doctors call me learned, and

because Nature gave me a wild wit, which to them is pleasanter than the

stale jests of a hired buffoon. Yes, they would advance my fortunes--but

how? by some place in the public offices, which would fill a dishonoured

coffer, by wringing, yet more sternly, the hard-earned coins from our

famishing citizens! If there be a vile thing in the world, it is a

plebeian, advanced by patricians, not for the purpose of righting his

own order, but for playing the pander to the worst interests of theirs.

He who is of the people but makes himself a traitor to his birth, if he

furnishes the excuse for these tyrant hypocrites to lift up their hands

and cry--‘See what liberty exists in Rome, when we, the patricians, thus

elevate a plebeian!’ Did they ever elevate a plebeian if he sympathized

with plebeians? No, brother; should I be lifted above our condition, I

will be raised by the arms of my countrymen, and not upon their necks.”

“All I hope, is, Cola, that you will not, in your zeal for your

fellow-citizens, forget how dear you are to us. No greatness could ever

reconcile me to the thought that it brought you danger.”

“And I could laugh at all danger, if it led to greatness. But

greatness--greatness! Vain dream! Let us keep it for our night sleep.

Enough of my plans; now, dearest brother, of yours.”

And, with the sanguine and cheerful elasticity which belonged to him,

the young Cola, dismissing all wilder thoughts, bent his mind to listen,

and to enter into, the humbler projects of his brother. The new boat and

the holiday dress, and the cot removed to a quarter more secure from the

oppression of the barons, and such distant pictures of love as a dark

eye and a merry lip conjure up to the vague sentiments of a boy;--to

schemes and aspirations of which such objects made the limit, did the

scholar listen, with a relaxed brow and a tender smile; and often, in

later life, did that conversation occur to him, when he shrank from

asking his own heart which ambition was the wiser.

“And then,” continued the younger brother, “by degrees I might save

enough to purchase such a vessel as that which we now see, laden,

doubtless, with corn and merchandise, bringing--oh, such a good

return--that I could fill your room with books, and never hear you

complain that you were not rich enough to purchase some crumbling old

monkish manuscript. Ah, that would make me so happy!” Cola smiled as he

pressed his brother closer to his breast.

“Dear boy,” said he, “may it rather be mine to provide for your wishes!

Yet methinks the masters of yon vessel have no enviable possession,

see how anxiously the men look round, and behind, and before: peaceful

traders though they be, they fear, it seems, even in this city (once the

emporium of the civilised world), some pirate in pursuit; and ere the

voyage be over, they may find that pirate in a Roman noble. Alas, to

what are we reduced!”

The vessel thus referred to was speeding rapidly down the river, and

some three or four armed men on deck were indeed intently surveying the

quiet banks on either side, as if anticipating a foe. The bark soon,

however, glided out of sight, and the brothers fell back upon those

themes which require only the future for a text to become attractive to

the young.

At length, as the evening darkened, they remembered that it was past the

usual hour in which they returned home, and they began to retrace their

steps.

“Stay,” said Cola, abruptly, “how our talk has beguiled me! Father

Uberto promised me a rare manuscript, which the good friar confesses

hath puzzled the whole convent. I was to seek his cell for it this

evening. Tarry here a few minutes, it is but half-way up the Aventine. I

shall soon return.”

“Can I not accompany you?”

“Nay,” returned Cola, with considerate kindness, “you have borne toil

all the day, and must be wearied; my labours of the body, at least, have

been light enough. You are delicate, too, and seem fatigued already; the

rest will refresh you. I shall not be long.”

The boy acquiesced, though he rather wished to accompany his brother;

but he was of a meek and yielding temper, and seldom resisted the

lightest command of those he loved. He sat him down on a little bank by

the river-side, and the firm step and towering form of his brother were

soon hid from his gaze by the thick and melancholy foliage.

At first he sat very quietly, enjoying the cool air, and thinking over

all the stories of ancient Rome that his brother had told him in their

walk. At length he recollected that his little sister, Irene, had begged

him to bring her home some flowers; and, gathering such as he could find

at hand (and many a flower grew, wild and clustering, over that desolate

spot), he again seated himself, and began weaving them into one of those

garlands for which the southern peasantry still retain their ancient

affection, and something of their classic skill.

While the boy was thus engaged, the tramp of horses and the loud

shouting of men were heard at a distance. They came near, and nearer.

“Some baron’s procession, perhaps, returning from a feast,” thought the

boy. “It will be a pretty sight--their white plumes and scarlet mantles!

I love to see such sights, but I will just move out of their way.”

So, still mechanically platting his garland, but with eyes turned

towards the quarter of the expected procession, the young Roman moved

yet nearer towards the river.

Presently the train came in view,--a gallant company, in truth; horsemen

in front, riding two abreast, where the path permitted, their steeds

caparisoned superbly, their plumes waving gaily, and the gleam of their

corselets glittering through the shades of the dusky twilight. A large

and miscellaneous crowd, all armed, some with pikes and mail, others

with less warlike or worse fashioned weapons, followed the cavaliers;

and high above plume and pike floated the blood-red banner of the

Orsini, with the motto and device (in which was ostentatiously displayed

the Guelfic badge of the keys of St. Peter) wrought in burnished gold.

A momentary fear crossed the boy’s mind, for at that time, and in that

city, a nobleman begirt with his swordsmen was more dreaded than a wild

beast by the plebeians; but it was already too late to fly--the train

were upon him.

“Ho, boy!” cried the leader of the horsemen, Martino di Porto, one of

the great House of the Orsini; “hast thou seen a boat pass up the

river?--But thou must have seen it--how long since?”

“I saw a large boat about half an hour ago,” answered the boy, terrified

by the rough voice and imperious bearing of the cavalier.

“Sailing right a-head, with a green flag at the stern?”

“The same, noble sir.”

“On, then! we will stop her course ere the moon rise,” said the baron.

“On!--let the boy go with us, lest he prove traitor, and alarm the

Colonna.”

“An Orsini, an Orsini,” shouted the multitude; “on, on!” and, despite

the prayers and remonstrances of the boy, he was placed in the

thickest of the crowd, and borne, or rather dragged along with the

rest--frightened, breathless, almost weeping, with his poor little

garland still hanging on his arm, while a sling was thrust into his

unwilling hand. Still he felt, through all his alarm, a kind of childish

curiosity to see the result of the pursuit.

By the loud and eager conversation of those about him, he learned that

the vessel he had seen contained a supply of corn destined to a fortress

up the river held by the Colonna, then at deadly feud with the Orsini;

and it was the object of the expedition in which the boy had been thus

lucklessly entrained to intercept the provision, and divert it to

the garrison of Martino di Porto. This news somewhat increased his

consternation, for the boy belonged to a family that claimed the

patronage of the Colonna.

Anxiously and tearfully he looked with every moment up the steep ascent

of the Aventine; but his guardian, his protector, still delayed his

appearance.

They had now proceeded some way, when a winding in the road brought

suddenly before them the object of their pursuit, as, seen by the light

of the earliest stars, it scudded rapidly down the stream.

“Now, the Saints be blest!” quoth the chief; “she is ours!”

“Hold!” said a captain (a German) riding next to Martino, in a half

whisper; “I hear sounds which I like not, by yonder trees--hark! The

neigh of a horse!--by my faith, too, there is the gleam of a corselet.”

“Push on, my masters,” cried Martino; “the heron shall not balk the

eagle--push on!”

With renewed shouts, those on foot pushed forward, till, as they had

nearly gained the copse referred to by the German, a small compact body

of horsemen, armed cap-a-pie, dashed from amidst the trees, and, with

spears in their rests, charged into the ranks of the pursuers.

“A Colonna! a Colonna!” “An Orsini! an Orsini!” were shouts loudly

and fiercely interchanged. Martino di Porto, a man of great bulk and

ferocity, and his cavaliers, who were chiefly German Mercenaries, met

the encounter unshaken. “Beware the bear’s hug,” cried the Orsini, as

down went his antagonist, rider and steed, before his lance.

The contest was short and fierce; the complete armour of the horsemen

protected them on either side from wounds,--not so unscathed fared the

half-armed foot-followers of the Orsini, as they pressed, each pushed on

by the other, against the Colonna. After a shower of stones and darts,

which fell but as hailstones against the thick mail of the horsemen,

they closed in, and, by their number, obstructed the movements of the

steeds, while the spear, sword, and battle-axe of their opponents made

ruthless havoc amongst their undisciplined ranks. And Martino, who cared

little how many of his mere mob were butchered, seeing that his foes

were for the moment embarrassed by the wild rush and gathering circle

of his foot train (for the place of conflict, though wider than the

previous road, was confined and narrow), made a sign to some of his

horsemen, and was about to ride forward towards the boat, now nearly out

of sight, when a bugle at some distance was answered by one of his enemy

at hand; and the shout of “Colonna to the rescue!” was echoed afar off.

A few moments brought in view a numerous train of horse at full speed,

with the banners of the Colonna waving gallantly in the front.

“A plague on the wizards! who would have imagined they had divined us

so craftily!” muttered Martino; “we must not abide these odds;” and the

hand he had first raised for advance, now gave the signal of retreat.

Serried breast to breast and in complete order, the horsemen of Martino

turned to fly; the foot rabble who had come for spoil remained but for

slaughter. They endeavoured to imitate their leaders; but how could they

all elude the rushing chargers and sharp lances of their antagonists,

whose blood was heated by the affray, and who regarded the lives at

their mercy as a boy regards the wasp’s nest he destroys. The crowd

dispersing in all directions,--some, indeed, escaped up the hills, where

the footing was impracticable to the horses; some plunged into the river

and swam across to the opposite bank--those less cool or experienced,

who fled right onwards, served, by clogging the way of their enemy, to

facilitate the flight of their leaders, but fell themselves, corpse upon

corpse, butchered in the unrelenting and unresisted pursuit.

“No quarter to the ruffians--every Orsini slain is a robber the

less--strike for God, the Emperor, and the Colonna!” such were the

shouts which rung the knell of the dismayed and falling fugitives. Among

those who fled onward, in the very path most accessible to the cavalry,

was the young brother of Cola, so innocently mixed with the affray. Fast

he fled, dizzy with terror--poor boy, scarce before ever parted from his

parents’ or his brother’s side!--the trees glided past him--the banks

receded:--on he sped, and fast behind came the tramp of the hoofs--the

shouts--the curses--the fierce laughter of the foe, as they bounded over

the dead and the dying in their path. He was now at the spot in which

his brother had left him; hastily he glanced behind, and saw the couched

lance and horrent crest of the horseman close at his rear; despairingly

he looked up, and behold! his brother bursting through the tangled

brakes that clothed the mountain, and bounding to his succour.

“Save me! save me, brother!” he shrieked aloud, and the shriek reached

Cola’s ear;--the snort of the fiery charger breathed hot upon him;--a

moment more, and with one wild shrill cry of “Mercy, mercy” he fell

to the ground--a corpse: the lance of the pursuer passing through and

through him, from back to breast, and nailing him on the very sod where

he had sate, full of young life and careless hope, not an hour ago.

The horseman plucked forth his spear, and passed on in pursuit of

new victims; his comrades following. Cola had descended,--was on the

spot,--kneeling by his murdered brother. Presently, to the sound of

horn and trumpet, came by a nobler company than most of those hitherto

engaged; who had been, indeed, but the advanced-guard of the Colonna. At

their head rode a man in years, whose long white hair escaped from his

plumed cap and mingled with his venerable beard. “How is this?” said the

chief, reining in his steed, “young Rienzi!”

The youth looked up, as he heard that voice, and then flung himself

before the steed of the old noble, and, clasping his hands, cried out

in a scarce articulate tone: “It is my brother, noble Stephen,--a boy,

a mere child!--the best--the mildest! See how his blood dabbles the

grass;--back, back--your horse’s hoofs are in the stream! Justice, my

Lord, justice!--you are a great man.”

“Who slew him? an Orsini, doubtless; you shall have justice.”

“Thanks, thanks,” murmured Rienzi, as he tottered once more to his

brother’s side, turned the boy’s face from the grass, and strove wildly

to feel the pulse of his heart; he drew back his hand hastily, for it

was crimsoned with blood, and lifting that hand on high, shrieked out

again, “Justice! justice!”

The group round the old Stephen Colonna, hardened as they were in such

scenes, were affected by the sight. A handsome boy, whose tears ran

fast down his cheeks, and who rode his palfrey close by the side of the

Colonna, drew forth his sword. “My Lord,” said he, half sobbing, “an

Orsini only could have butchered a harmless lad like this; let us lose

not a moment,--let us on after the ruffians.”

“No, Adrian, no!” cried Stephen, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder;

“your zeal is to be lauded, but we must beware an ambush. Our men have

ventured too far--what, ho, there!--sound a return.”

The bugles, in a few minutes, brought back the pursuers,--among them,

the horseman whose spear had been so fatally misused. He was the leader

of those engaged in the conflict with Martino di Porto; and the gold

wrought into his armour, with the gorgeous trappings of his charger,

betokened his rank.

“Thanks, my son, thanks,” said the old Colonna to this cavalier, “you

have done well and bravely. But tell me, knowest thou, for thou hast

an eagle eye, which of the Orsini slew this poor boy?--a foul deed; his

family, too, our clients!”

“Who? yon lad?” replied the horseman, lifting the helmet from his

head, and wiping his heated brow; “say you so! how came he, then, with

Martino’s rascals? I fear me the mistake hath cost him dear. I could but

suppose him of the Orsini rabble, and so--and so--”

“You slew him!” cried Rienzi, in a voice of thunder, starting from

the ground. “Justice! then, my Lord Stephen, justice! you promised me

justice, and I will have it!”

“My poor youth,” said the old man, compassionately, “you should have had

justice against the Orsini; but see you not this has been an error? I

do not wonder you are too grieved to listen to reason now. We must make

this up to you.”

“And let this pay for masses for the boy’s soul; I grieve me much for

the accident,” said the younger Colonna, flinging down a purse of gold.

“Ay, see us at the palace next week, young Cola--next week. My father,

we had best return towards the boat; its safeguard may require us yet.”

“Right, Gianni; stay, some two of you, and see to the poor lad’s

corpse;--a grievous accident! how could it chance?”

The company passed back the way they came, two of the common soldiers

alone remaining, except the boy Adrian, who lingered behind a few

moments, striving to console Rienzi, who, as one bereft of sense,

remained motionless, gazing on the proud array as it swept along, and

muttering to himself, “Justice, justice! I will have it yet.”

The loud voice of the elder Colonna summoned Adrian, reluctantly

and weeping, away. “Let me be your brother,” said the gallant boy,

affectionately pressing the scholar’s hand to his heart; “I want a

brother like you.”

Rienzi made no reply; he did not heed or hear him--dark and stern

thoughts, thoughts in which were the germ of a mighty revolution, were

at his heart. He woke from them with a start, as the soldiers were now

arranging their bucklers so as to make a kind of bier for the corpse,

and then burst into tears as he fiercely motioned them away, and clasped

the clay to his breast till he was literally soaked with the oozing

blood.

The poor child’s garland had not dropped from his arm even when he fell,

and, entangled by his dress, it still clung around him. It was a sight

that recalled to Cola all the gentleness, the kind heart, and winning

graces of his only brother--his only friend! It was a sight that

seemed to make yet more inhuman the untimely and unmerited fate of that

innocent boy. “My brother! my brother!” groaned the survivor; “how shall

I meet our mother?--how shall I meet even night and solitude again?--so

young, so harmless! See ye, sirs, he was but too gentle. And they will

not give us justice, because his murderer was a noble and a Colonna.

And this gold, too--gold for a brother’s blood! Will they not”--and the

young man’s eyes glared like fire--“will they not give us justice?

Time shall show!” so saying, he bent his head over the corpse; his lips

muttered, as with some prayer or invocation; and then rising, his face

was as pale as the dead beside him,--but it was no longer pale with

grief!

From that bloody clay, and that inward prayer, Cola di Rienzi rose a new

being. With his young brother died his own youth. But for that event,

the future liberator of Rome might have been but a dreamer, a scholar, a

poet; the peaceful rival of Petrarch; a man of thoughts, not deeds. But

from that time, all his faculties, energies, fancies, genius, became

concentrated into a single point; and patriotism, before a vision, leapt

into the life and vigour of a passion, lastingly kindled, stubbornly

hardened, and awfully consecrated,--by revenge!

Chapter 1.II. An Historical Survey--not to Be Passed Over, Except by

Those Who Dislike to Understand What They Read.

Years had passed away, and the death of the Roman boy, amidst more noble

and less excusable slaughter, was soon forgotten,--forgotten almost

by the parents of the slain, in the growing fame and fortunes of their

eldest son,--forgotten and forgiven never by that son himself.

But, between that prologue of blood, and the political drama which

ensues,--between the fading interest, as it were, of a dream, and the

more busy, actual, and continuous excitements of sterner life,--this may

be the most fitting time to place before the reader a short and rapid

outline of the state and circumstances of that city in which the

principal scenes of this story are laid;--an outline necessary, perhaps,

to many, for a full comprehension of the motives of the actors, and the

vicissitudes of the plot.

Despite the miscellaneous and mongrel tribes that had forced their

settlements in the City of the Caesars, the Roman population retained

an inordinate notion of their own supremacy over the rest of the world;

and, degenerated from the iron virtues of the Republic, possessed all

the insolent and unruly turbulence which characterised the Plebs of the

ancient Forum. Amongst a ferocious, yet not a brave populace, the

nobles supported themselves less as sagacious tyrants than as relentless

banditti. The popes had struggled in vain against these stubborn and

stern patricians. Their state derided, their command defied, their

persons publicly outraged, the pontiff-sovereigns of the rest of Europe

resided, at the Vatican, as prisoners under terror of execution.

When, thirty-eight years before the date of the events we are about to

witness, a Frenchman, under the name of Clement V., had ascended the

chair of St. Peter, the new pope, with more prudence than valour, had

deserted Rome for the tranquil retreat of Avignon; and the luxurious

town of a foreign province became the court of the Roman pontiff, and

the throne of the Christian Church.

Thus deprived of even the nominal check of the papal presence, the power

of the nobles might be said to have no limits, save their own caprice,

or their mutual jealousies and feuds. Though arrogating through fabulous

genealogies their descent from the ancient Romans, they were, in

reality, for the most part, the sons of the bolder barbarians of the

North; and, contaminated by the craft of Italy, rather than imbued with

its national affections, they retained the disdain of their foreign

ancestors for a conquered soil and a degenerate people. While the rest

of Italy, especially in Florence, in Venice, and in Milan, was fast and

far advancing beyond the other states of Europe in civilisation and in

art, the Romans appeared rather to recede than to improve;--unblest by

laws, unvisited by art, strangers at once to the chivalry of a warlike,

and the graces of a peaceful, people. But they still possessed the

sense and desire of liberty, and, by ferocious paroxysms and desperate

struggles, sought to vindicate for their city the title it still assumed

of “the Metropolis of the World.” For the last two centuries they had

known various revolutions--brief, often bloody, and always unsuccessful.

Still, there was the empty pageant of a popular form of government. The

thirteen quarters of the city named each a chief; and the assembly of

these magistrates, called Caporioni, by theory possessed an authority

they had neither the power nor the courage to exert. Still there was the

proud name of Senator; but, at the present time, the office was confined

to one or to two persons, sometimes elected by the pope, sometimes by

the nobles. The authority attached to the name seems to have had no

definite limit; it was that of a stern dictator, or an indolent puppet,

according as he who held it had the power to enforce the dignity he

assumed. It was never conceded but to nobles, and it was by the nobles

that all the outrages were committed. Private enmity alone was gratified

whenever public justice was invoked: and the vindication of order was

but the execution of revenge.

Holding their palaces as the castles and fortresses of princes, each

asserting his own independency of all authority and law, and planting

fortifications, and claiming principalities in the patrimonial

territories of the Church, the barons of Rome made their state still

more secure, and still more odious, by the maintenance of troops of

foreign (chiefly of German) mercenaries, at once braver in disposition,

more disciplined in service, and more skilful in arms, than even the

freest Italians of that time. Thus they united the judicial and the

military force, not for the protection, but for the ruin of Rome. Of

these barons, the most powerful were the Orsini and Colonna; their feuds

were hereditary and incessant, and every day witnessed the fruits of

their lawless warfare, in bloodshed, in rape, and in conflagration.

The flattery or the friendship of Petrarch, too credulously believed by

modern historians, has invested the Colonna, especially of the date now

entered upon, with an elegance and a dignity not their own. Outrage,

fraud, and assassination, a sordid avarice in securing lucrative offices

to themselves, an insolent oppression of their citizens, and the

most dastardly cringing to power superior to their own (with but few

exceptions), mark the character of the first family of Rome. But,

wealthier than the rest of the barons, they were, therefore, more

luxurious, and, perhaps, more intellectual; and their pride was

flattered in being patrons of those arts of which they could never

have become the professors. From these multiplied oppressors the Roman

citizens turned with fond and impatient regret to their ignorant and

dark notions of departed liberty and greatness. They confounded the

times of the Empire with those of the Republic; and often looked to the

Teutonic king, who obtained his election from beyond the Alps, but his

title of emperor from the Romans, as the deserter of his legitimate

trust and proper home; vainly imagining that, if both the Emperor and

the Pontiff fixed their residence in Rome, Liberty and Law would again

seek their natural shelter beneath the resuscitated majesty of the Roman

people.

The absence of the pope and the papal court served greatly to impoverish

the citizens; and they had suffered yet more visibly by the depredations

of hordes of robbers, numerous and unsparing, who infested Romagna,

obstructing all the public ways, and were, sometimes secretly,

sometimes, openly, protected by the barons, who often recruited their

banditti garrisons by banditti soldiers.

But besides the lesser and ignobler robbers, there had risen in Italy

a far more formidable description of freebooters. A German, who assumed

the lofty title of the Duke Werner, had, a few years prior to the period

we approach, enlisted and organised a considerable force, styled “The

Great Company,” with which he besieged cities and invaded states,

without any object less shameless than that of pillage. His example was

soon imitated: numerous “Companies,” similarly constituted, devastated

the distracted and divided land. They appeared, suddenly raised, as if

by magic, before the walls of a city, and demanded immense sums as the

purchase of peace. Neither tyrant nor common wealth maintained a force

sufficient to resist them; and if other northern mercenaries were

engaged to oppose them, it was only to recruit the standards of the

freebooters with deserters. Mercenary fought not mercenary--nor German,

German: and greater pay, and more unbridled rapine, made the tents of

the “Companies” far more attractive than the regulated stipends of a

city, or the dull fortress and impoverished coffers of a chief. Werner,

the most implacable and ferocious of all these adventurers, and who had

so openly gloried in his enormities as to wear upon his breast a silver

plate, engraved with the words, “Enemy to God, to Pity, and to Mercy,”

had not long since ravaged Romagna with fire and sword. But, whether

induced by money, or unable to control the fierce spirits he had

raised, he afterwards led the bulk of his company back to Germany. Small

detachments, however, remained, scattered throughout the land, waiting

only an able leader once more to re-unite them: amongst those who

appeared most fitted for that destiny was Walter de Montreal, a Knight

of St. John, and gentleman of Provence, whose valour and military genius

had already, though yet young, raised his name into dreaded celebrity;

and whose ambition, experience, and sagacity, relieved by certain

chivalric and noble qualities, were suited to enterprises far greater

and more important than the violent depredations of the atrocious

Werner. From these scourges, no state had suffered more grievously than

Rome. The patrimonial territories of the pope,--in part wrested from him

by petty tyrants, in part laid waste by these foreign robbers,--yielded

but a scanty supply to the necessities of Clement VI., the most

accomplished gentleman and the most graceful voluptuary of his time; and

the good father had devised a plan, whereby to enrich at once the Romans

and their pontiff.

Nearly fifty years before the time we enter upon, in order both to

replenish the papal coffers and pacify the starving Romans, Boniface

VIII. had instituted the Festival of the Jubilee, or Holy Year; in fact,

a revival of a Pagan ceremonial. A plenary indulgence was promised

to every Catholic who, in that year, and in the first year of every

succeeding century, should visit the churches of St. Peter and St. Paul.

An immense concourse of pilgrims, from every part of Christendom, had

attested the wisdom of the invention; “and two priests stood night and

day, with rakes in their hands, to collect without counting the heaps

of gold and silver that were poured on the altar of St. Paul.” (Gibbon,

vol. xii. c. 59.)

It is not to be wondered at that this most lucrative festival should,

ere the next century was half expired, appear to a discreet pontiff

to be too long postponed. And both pope and city agreed in thinking it

might well bear a less distant renewal. Accordingly, Clement VI. had

proclaimed, under the name of the Mosaic Jubilee, a second Holy Year

for 1350--viz., three years distant from that date at which, in the

next chapter, my narrative will commence. This circumstance had a great

effect in whetting the popular indignation against the barons, and

preparing the events I shall relate; for the roads were, as I before

said, infested by the banditti, the creatures and allies of the barons.

And if the roads were not cleared, the pilgrims might not attend. It

was the object of the pope’s vicar, Raimond, bishop of Orvietto (bad

politician and good canonist), to seek, by every means, to remove all

impediment between the offerings of devotion and the treasury of St.

Peter.

Such, in brief, was the state of Rome at the period we are about to

examine. Her ancient mantle of renown still, in the eyes of Italy and of

Europe, cloaked her ruins. In name, at least, she was still the queen

of the earth; and from her hands came the crown of the emperor of the

north, and the keys of the father of the church. Her situation was

precisely that which presented a vase and glittering triumph to

bold ambition,--an inspiring, if mournful, spectacle to determined

patriotism,--and a fitting stage for that more august tragedy which

seeks its incidents, selects its actors, and shapes its moral, amidst

the vicissitudes and crimes of nations.

Chapter 1.III. The Brawl.

On an evening in April, 1347, and in one of those wide spaces in which

Modern and Ancient Rome seemed blent together--equally desolate and

equally in ruins--a miscellaneous and indignant populace were assembled.

That morning the house of a Roman jeweller had been forcibly entered and

pillaged by the soldiers of Martino di Porto, with a daring effrontery

which surpassed even the ordinary licence of the barons. The sympathy

and sensation throughout the city were deep and ominous.

“Never will I submit to this tyranny!”

“Nor I!”

“Nor I!”

“Nor by the bones of St. Peter, will I!”

“And what, my friends, is this tyranny to which you will not submit?”

said a young nobleman, addressing himself to the crowd of citizens who,

heated, angry, half-armed, and with the vehement gestures of Italian

passion, were now sweeping down the long and narrow street that led to

the gloomy quarter occupied by the Orsini.

“Ah, my lord!” cried two or three of the citizens in a breath, “you will

right us--you will see justice done to us--you are a Colonna.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed scornfully one man of gigantic frame, and wielding

on high a huge hammer, indicative of his trade. “Justice and Colonna!

body of God! those names are not often found together.”

“Down with him! down with him! he is an Orsinist--down with him!” cried

at least ten of the throng: but no hand was raised against the giant.

“He speaks the truth,” said a second voice, firmly.

“Ay, that doth he,” said a third, knitting his brows, and unsheathing

his knife, “and we will abide by it. The Orsini are tyrants--and the

Colonnas are, at the best, as bad.”

“Thou liest in thy teeth, ruffian!” cried the young noble, advancing

into the press and confronting the last asperser of the Colonna.

Before the flashing eye and menacing gesture of the cavalier, the worthy

brawler retreated some steps, so as to leave an open space between the

towering form of the smith, and the small, slender, but vigorous frame

of the young noble.

Taught from their birth to despise the courage of the plebeians, even

while careless of much reputation as to their own, the patricians of

Rome were not unaccustomed to the rude fellowship of these brawls; nor

was it unoften that the mere presence of a noble sufficed to scatter

whole crowds, that had the moment before been breathing vengeance

against his order and his house.

Waving his hand, therefore, to the smith, and utterly unheeding either

his brandished weapon or his vast stature, the young Adrian di Castello,

a distant kinsman of the Colonna, haughtily bade him give way.

“To your homes, friends! and know,” he added, with some dignity, “that

ye wrong us much, if ye imagine we share the evil-doings of the Orsini,

or are pandering solely to our own passions in the feud between their

house and ours. May the Holy Mother so judge me,” continued he, devoutly

lifting up his eyes, “as I now with truth declare, that it is for your

wrongs, and for the wrongs of Rome, that I have drawn this sword against

the Orsini.”

“So say all the tyrants,” rejoined the smith, hardily, as he leant his

hammer against a fragment of stone--some remnant of ancient Rome--“they

never fight against each other, but it is for our good. One Colonna cuts

me the throat of Orsini’s baker--it is for our good! Another Colonna

seizes on the daughter of Orsini’s tailor--it is for our good! our

good--yes, for the good of the people! the good of the bakers and

tailors, eh?”

“Fellow,” said the young nobleman, gravely, “if a Colonna did thus, he

did wrong; but the holiest cause may have bad supporters.”

“Yes, the holy Church itself is propped on very in different columns,”

answered the smith, in a rude witticism on the affection of the pope for

the Colonna.

“He blasphemes! the smith blasphemes!” cried the partisans of that

powerful house. “A Colonna, a Colonna!”

“An Orsini, an Orsini!” was no less promptly the counter cry.

“The People!” shouted the smith, waving his formidable weapon far above

the heads of the group.

In an instant the whole throng, who had at first united against the

aggression of one man, were divided by the hereditary wrath of faction.

At the cry of Orsini, several new partisans hurried to the spot; the

friends of the Colonna drew themselves on one side--the defenders of

the Orsini on the other--and the few who agreed with the smith that both

factions were equally odious, and the people was the sole legitimate

cry in a popular commotion, would have withdrawn themselves from the

approaching melee, if the smith himself, who was looked upon by them as

an authority of great influence, had not--whether from resentment at the

haughty bearing of the young Colonna, or from that appetite of contest

not uncommon in men of a bulk and force which assure them in all

personal affrays the lofty pleasure of superiority--if, I say, the smith

himself had not, after a pause of indecision, retired among the Orsini,

and entrained, by his example, the alliance of his friends with the

favourers of that faction.

In popular commotions, each man is whirled along with the herd, often

half against his own approbation or assent. The few words of peace

by which Adrian di Castello commenced an address to his friends were

drowned amidst their shouts. Proud to find in their ranks one of the

most beloved, and one of the noblest of that name, the partisans of

the Colonna placed him in their front, and charged impetuously on their

foes. Adrian, however, who had acquired from circumstances something of

that chivalrous code which he certainly could not have owed to his Roman

birth, disdained at first to assault men among whom he recognised no

equal, either in rank or the practice of arms. He contented himself with

putting aside the few strokes that were aimed at him in the gathering

confusion of the conflict--few; for those who recognised him, even

amidst the bitterest partisans of the Orsini, were not willing to expose

themselves to the danger and odium of spilling the blood of a man, who,

in addition to his great birth and the terrible power of his connexions,

was possessed of a personal popularity, which he owed rather to a

comparison with the vices of his relatives than to any remarkable

virtues hitherto displayed by himself. The smith alone, who had as

yet taken no active part in the fray, seemed to gather himself up in

determined opposition as the cavalier now advanced within a few steps of

him.

“Did we not tell thee,” quoth the giant, frowning, “that the Colonna

were, not less than the Orsini, the foes of the people? Look at thy

followers and clients: are they not cutting the throats of humble men by

way of vengeance for the crime of a great one? But that is the way one

patrician always scourges the insolence of another. He lays the rod on

the backs of the people, and then cries, ‘See how just I am!’”

“I do not answer thee now,” answered Adrian; “but if thou regrettest

with me this waste of blood, join with me in attempting to prevent it.”

“I--not I! let the blood of the slaves flow today: the time is fast

coming when it shall be washed away by the blood of the lords.”

“Away, ruffian!” said Adrian, seeking no further parley, and touching

the smith with the flat side of his sword. In an instant the hammer of

the smith swung in the air, and, but for the active spring of the young

noble, would infallibly have crushed him to the earth. Ere the smith

could gain time for a second blow, Adrian’s sword passed twice through

his right arm, and the weapon fell heavily to the ground.

“Slay him, slay him!” cried several of the clients of the Colonna, now

pressing, dastard-like, round the disarmed and disabled smith.

“Ay, slay him!” said, in tolerable Italian, but with a barbarous accent,

one man, half-clad in armour, who had but just joined the group, and who

was one of those wild German bandits whom the Colonna held in their pay;

“he belongs to a horrible gang of miscreants sworn against all order

and peace. He is one of Rienzi’s followers, and, bless the Three Kings!

raves about the People.”

“Thou sayest right, barbarian,” said the sturdy smith, in a loud voice,

and tearing aside the vest from his breast with his left hand; “come

all--Colonna and Orsini--dig to this heart with your sharp blades, and

when you have reached the centre, you will find there the object of your

common hatred--‘Rienzi and the People!’”

As he uttered these words, in language that would have seemed above his

station (if a certain glow and exaggeration of phrase and sentiment were

not common, when excited, to all the Romans), the loudness of his voice

rose above the noise immediately round him, and stilled, for an instant,

the general din; and when, at last, the words, “Rienzi and the People”

rang forth, they penetrated midway through the increasing crowd, and

were answered as by an echo, with a hundred voices--“Rienzi and the

People!”

But whatever impression the words of the mechanic made on others, it was

equally visible in the young Colonna. At the name of Rienzi the glow

of excitement vanished from his cheek; he started back, muttered to

himself, and for a moment seemed, even in the midst of that stirring

commotion, to be lost in a moody and distant revery. He recovered, as

the shout died away; and saying to the smith, in a low tone, “Friend, I

am sorry for thy wound; but seek me on the morrow, and thou shalt find

thou hast wronged me;” he beckoned to the German to follow him, and

threaded his way through the crowd, which generally gave back as he

advanced. For the bitterest hatred to the order of the nobles was at

that time in Rome mingled with a servile respect for their persons, and

a mysterious awe of their uncontrollable power.

As Adrian passed through that part of the crowd in which the fray had

not yet commenced, the murmurs that followed him were not those which

many of his race could have heard.

“A Colonna,” said one.

“Yet no ravisher,” said another, laughing wildly.

“Nor murtherer,” muttered a third, pressing his hand to his breast.

“‘Tis not against him that my father’s blood cries aloud.”

“Bless him,” said a fourth, “for as yet no man curses him!”

“Ah, God help us!” said an old man, with a long grey beard, leaning on

his staff: “The serpent’s young yet; the fangs will show by and by.”

“For shame, father! he is a comely youth, and not proud in the least.

What a smile he hath!” quoth a fair matron, who kept on the outskirt of

the melee.

“Farewell to a man’s honour when a noble smiles on his wife!” was the

answer.

“Nay,” said Luigi, a jolly butcher, with a roguish eye, “what a man

can win fairly from maid or wife, that let him do, whether plebeian or

noble--that’s my morality; but when an ugly old patrician finds fair

words will not win fair looks, and carries me off a dame on the back of

a German boar, with a stab in the side for comfort to the spouse,--then,

I say, he is a wicked man, and an adulterer.”

While such were the comments and the murmurs that followed the noble,

very different were the looks and words that attended the German

soldier.

Equally, nay, with even greater promptitude, did the crowd make way at

his armed and heavy tread; but not with looks of reverence:--the eye

glared as he approached; but the cheek grew pale--the head bowed--the

lip quivered; each man felt a shudder of hate and fear, as recognizing

a dread and mortal foe. And well and wrathfully did the fierce

mercenary note the signs of the general aversion. He pushed on

rudely--half-smiling in contempt, half-frowning in revenge, as he looked

from side to side; and his long, matted, light hair, tawny-coloured

moustache, and brawny front, contrasted strongly with the dark eyes,

raven locks, and slender frames of the Italians.

“May Lucifer double damn those German cut-throats!” muttered, between

his grinded teeth, one of the citizens.

“Amen!” answered, heartily, another.

“Hush!” said a third, timorously looking round; “if one of them hear

thee, thou art a lost man.”

“Oh, Rome! Rome! to what art thou fallen!” said bitterly one citizen,

clothed in black, and of a higher seeming than the rest; “when thou

shudderest in thy streets at the tread of a hired barbarian!”

“Hark to one of our learned men, and rich citizens!” said the butcher,

reverently.

“‘Tis a friend of Rienzi’s,” quoth another of the group, lifting his

cap.

With downcast eyes, and a face in which grief, shame, and wrath, were

visibly expressed, Pandulfo di Guido, a citizen of birth and repute,

swept slowly through the crowd, and disappeared.

Meanwhile, Adrian, having gained a street which, though in the

neighbourhood of the crowd, was empty and desolate, turned to his fierce

comrade. “Rodolf!” said he, “mark!--no violence to the citizens. Return

to the crowd, collect the friends of our house, withdraw them from the

scene; let not the Colonna be blamed for this day’s violence; and assure

our followers, in my name, that I swear, by the knighthood I received at

the Emperor’s hands, that by my sword shall Martino di Porto be punished

for his outrage. Fain would I, in person, allay the tumult, but my

presence only seems to sanction it. Go--thou hast weight with them all.”

“Ay, Signor, the weight of blows!” answered the grim soldier. “But the

command is hard; I would fain let their puddle-blood flow an hour or

two longer. Yet, pardon me; in obeying thy orders, do I obey those of my

master, thy kinsman? It is old Stephen Colonna--who seldom spares blood

or treasure, God bless him--(save his own!)--whose money I hold, and to

whose hests I am sworn.”

“Diavolo!” muttered the cavalier, and the angry spot was on his cheek;

but, with the habitual self-control of the Italian nobles, he smothered

his rising choler, and said aloud, with calmness, but dignity--

“Do as I bid thee; check this tumult--make us the forbearing party.

Let all be still within one hour hence, and call on me tomorrow for thy

reward; be this purse an earnest of my future thanks. As for my kinsman,

whom I command thee to name more reverently, ‘tis in his name I speak.

Hark! the din increases--the contest swells--go--lose not another

moment.”

Somewhat awed by the quiet firmness of the patrician, Rodolf nodded,

without answer, slid the money into his bosom, and stalked away into the

thickest of the throng. But, even ere he arrived, a sudden reaction had

taken place.

The young cavalier, left alone in that spot, followed with his eyes the

receding form of the mercenary, as the sun, now setting, shone slant

upon his glittering casque, and said bitterly to himself--“Unfortunate

city, fountain of all mighty memories--fallen queen of a thousand

nations--how art thou decrowned and spoiled by thy recreant and apostate

children! Thy nobles divided against themselves--thy people cursing thy

nobles--thy priests, who should sow peace, planting discord--the father

of thy church deserting thy stately walls, his home a refuge, his mitre

a fief, his court a Gallic village--and we! we, of the haughtiest

blood of Rome--we, the sons of Caesars, and of the lineage of demigods,

guarding an insolent and abhorred state by the swords of hirelings, who

mock our cowardice while they receive our pay--who keep our citizens

slaves, and lord it over their very masters in return! Oh, that we, the

hereditary chiefs of Rome, could but feel--oh, that we could but find,

our only legitimate safeguard in the grateful hearts of our countrymen!”

So deeply did the young Adrian feel the galling truth of all he uttered,

that the indignant tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke. He felt no

shame as he dashed them away; for that weakness which weeps for a fallen

race, is the tenderness not of women but of angels.

As he turned slowly to quit the spot, his steps were suddenly arrested

by a loud shout: “Rienzi! Rienzi!” smote the air. From the walls of the

Capitol to the bed of the glittering Tiber, that name echoed far and

wide; and, as the shout died away, it was swallowed up in a silence so

profound, so universal, so breathless, that you might have imagined that

death itself had fallen over the city. And now, at the extreme end of

the crowd, and elevated above their level, on vast fragments of stone

which had been dragged from the ruins of Rome in one of the late

frequent tumults between contending factions, to serve as a barricade

for citizens against citizens,--on these silent memorials of the past

grandeur, the present misery, of Rome, stood that extraordinary man,

who, above all his race, was the most penetrated with the glories of the

one time, with the degradation of the other.

From the distance at which he stood from the scene, Adrian could only

distinguish the dark outline of Rienzi’s form; he could only hear the

faint sound of his mighty voice; he could only perceive, in the subdued

yet waving sea of human beings that spread around, their heads bared

in the last rays of the sun, the unutterable effect which an eloquence,

described by contemporaries almost as miraculous,--but in reality

less so from the genius of the man than the sympathy of the

audience,--created in all, who drank into their hearts and souls the

stream of its burning thoughts.

It was but for a short time that that form was visible to the earnest

eye, that that voice at intervals reached the straining ear, of Adrian

di Castello; but that time sufficed to produce all the effect which

Adrian himself had desired.

Another shout, more earnest, more prolonged than the first--a shout,

in which spoke the release of swelling thoughts, of intense

excitement--betokened the close of the harangue; and then you might

see, after a minute’s pause, the crowd breaking in all directions, and

pouring down the avenues in various knots and groups, each testifying

the strong and lasting impression made upon the multitude by that

address. Every cheek was flushed--every tongue spoke: the animation of

the orator had passed, like a living spirit, into the breasts of the

audience. He had thundered against the disorders of the patricians, yet,

by a word, he had disarmed the anger of the plebeians--he had preached

freedom, yet he had opposed licence. He had calmed the present, by a

promise of the future. He had chid their quarrels, yet had supported

their cause. He had mastered the revenge of today, by a solemn assurance

that there should come justice for the morrow. So great may be the

power, so mighty the eloquence, so formidable the genius, of one

man,--without arms, without rank, without sword or ermine, who addresses

himself to a people that is oppressed!

Chapter 1.IV. An Adventure.

Avoiding the broken streams of the dispersed crowd, Adrian Colonna

strode rapidly down one of the narrow streets leading to his palace,

which was situated at no inconsiderable distance from the place in which

the late contest had occurred. The education of his life made him feel

a profound interest, not only in the divisions and disputes of his

country, but also in the scene he had just witnessed, and the authority

exercised by Rienzi.

An orphan of a younger, but opulent branch of the Colonna, Adrian had

been brought up under the care and guardianship of his kinsman, that

astute, yet valiant Stephen Colonna, who, of all the nobles of Rome, was

the most powerful, alike from the favour of the pope, and the number

of armed hirelings whom his wealth enabled him to maintain. Adrian

had early manifested what in that age was considered an extraordinary

disposition towards intellectual pursuits, and had acquired much of

the little that was then known of the ancient language and the ancient

history of his country.

Though Adrian was but a boy at the time in which, first presented to the

reader, he witnessed the emotions of Rienzi at the death of his brother,

his kind heart had been penetrated with sympathy for Cola’s affliction,

and shame for the apathy of his kinsmen at the result of their own

feuds. He had earnestly sought the friendship of Rienzi, and, despite

his years, had become aware of the power and energy of his character.

But though Rienzi, after a short time, had appeared to think no more of

his brother’s death--though he again entered the halls of the Colonna,

and shared their disdainful hospitalities, he maintained a certain

distance and reserve of manner, which even Adrian could only partially

overcome. He rejected every offer of service, favour, or promotion; and

any unwonted proof of kindness from Adrian seemed, instead of making him

more familiar, to offend him into colder distance. The easy humour and

conversational vivacity which had first rendered him a welcome guest

with those who passed their lives between fighting and feasting, had

changed into a vein ironical, cynical, and severe. But the dull barons

were equally amused at his wit, and Adrian was almost the only one who

detected the serpent couched beneath the smile.

Often Rienzi sat at the feast, silent, but observant, as if watching

every look, weighing every word, taking gauge and measurement of the

intellect, policy, temperament, of every guest; and when he had seemed

to satisfy himself, his spirits would rise, his words flow, and

while his dazzling but bitter wit lit up the revel, none saw that the

unmirthful flash was the token of the coming storm. But all the while,

he neglected no occasion to mix with the humbler citizens, to stir up

their minds, to inflame their imaginations, to kindle their emulation,

with pictures of the present and with legends of the past. He grew in

popularity and repute, and was yet more in power with the herd, because

in favour with the nobles. Perhaps it was for that reason that he had

continued the guest of the Colonna.

When, six years before the present date, the Capitol of the Caesars

witnessed the triumph of Petrarch, the scholastic fame of the young

Rienzi had attracted the friendship of the poet,--a friendship that

continued, with slight interruption, to the last, through careers

so widely different; and afterwards, one among the Roman Deputies to

Avignon, he had been conjoined with Petrarch (According to the modern

historians; but it seems more probable that Rienzi’s mission to Avignon

was posterior to that of Petrarch. However this be, it was at Avignon

that Petrarch and Rienzi became most intimate, as Petrarch himself

observes in one of his letters.) to supplicate Clement VI. to remove

the Holy See from Avignon to Rome. It was in this mission that, for

the first time, he evinced his extraordinary powers of eloquence and

persuasion. The pontiff, indeed, more desirous of ease than glory, was

not convinced by the arguments, but he was enchanted with the pleader;

and Rienzi returned to Rome, loaded with honours, and clothed with the

dignity of high and responsible office. No longer the inactive scholar,

the gay companion, he rose at once to pre-eminence above all his

fellow-citizens. Never before had authority been borne with so austere

an integrity, so uncorrupt a zeal. He had sought to impregnate his

colleagues with the same loftiness of principle--he had failed. Now

secure in his footing, he had begun openly to appeal to the people; and

already a new spirit seemed to animate the populace of Rome.

While these were the fortunes of Rienzi, Adrian had been long separated

from him, and absent from Rome.

The Colonna were staunch supporters of the imperial party, and Adrian di

Castello had received and obeyed an invitation to the Emperor’s court.

Under that monarch he had initiated himself in arms, and, among the

knights of Germany, he had learned to temper the natural Italian

shrewdness with the chivalry of northern valour.

In leaving Bavaria, he had sojourned a short time in the solitude of one

of his estates by the fairest lake of northern Italy; and thence, with

a mind improved alike by action and study, had visited many of the free

Italian states, imbibed sentiments less prejudiced than those of his

order, and acquired an early reputation for himself while inly marking

the characters and deeds of others. In him, the best qualities of the

Italian noble were united. Passionately addicted to the cultivation

of letters, subtle and profound in policy, gentle and bland of manner,

dignifying a love of pleasure with a certain elevation of taste, he yet

possessed a gallantry of conduct, and purity of honour, and an

aversion from cruelty, which were then very rarely found in the Italian

temperament, and which even the Chivalry of the North, while maintaining

among themselves, usually abandoned the moment they came into contact

with the systematic craft and disdain of honesty, which made the

character of the ferocious, yet wily, South. With these qualities he

combined, indeed, the softer passions of his countrymen,--he adored

Beauty, and he made a deity of Love.

He had but a few weeks returned to his native city, whither his

reputation had already preceded him, and where his early affection for

letters and gentleness of bearing were still remembered. He returned to

find the position of Rienzi far more altered than his own. Adrian had

not yet sought the scholar. He wished first to judge with his own eyes,

and at a distance, of the motives and object of his conduct; for partly

he caught the suspicions which his own order entertained of Rienzi, and

partly he shared in the trustful enthusiasm of the people.

“Certainly,” said he now to himself, as he walked musingly onward,

“certainly, no man has it more in his power to reform our diseased

state, to heal our divisions, to awaken our citizens to the

recollections of ancestral virtue. But that very power, how dangerous

is it! Have I not seen, in the free states of Italy, men, called into

authority for the sake of preserving the people, honest themselves at

first, and then, drunk with the sudden rank, betraying the very cause

which had exalted them? True, those men were chiefs and nobles; but are

plebeians less human? Howbeit I have heard and seen enough from afar,--I

will now approach, and examine the man himself.”

While thus soliloquizing, Adrian but little noted the various

passengers, who, more and more rarely as the evening waned, hastened

homeward. Among these were two females, who now alone shared with Adrian

the long and gloomy street into which he had entered. The moon was

already bright in the heavens, and, as the women passed the cavalier

with a light and quick step, the younger one turned back and regarded

him by the clear light with an eager, yet timid glance.

“Why dost thou tremble, my pretty one!” said her companion, who might

have told some five-and-forty years, and whose garb and voice bespoke

her of inferior rank to the younger female. “The streets seem quiet

enough now, and, the Virgin be praised! we are not so far from home

either.”

“Oh, Benedetta, it is he! it is the young signor--it is Adrian!”

“That is fortunate,” said the nurse, for such was her condition, “since

they say he is as bold as a Northman: and as the Palazzo Colonna is not

very far from hence, we shall be within reach of his aid should we want

it: that is to say, sweet one, if you will walk a little slower than you

have yet done.”

The young lady slackened her pace, and sighed.

“He is certainly very handsome,” quoth the nurse: “but thou must not

think more of him; he is too far above thee for marriage, and for aught

else, thou art too honest, and thy brother too proud--”

“And thou, Benedetta, art too quick with thy tongue. How canst thou talk

thus, when thou knowest he hath never, since, at least, I was a mere

child, even addressed me: nay, he scarce knows of my very existence. He,

the Lord Adrian di Castello, dream of the poor Irene! The mere thought

is madness!”

“Then why,” said the nurse, briskly, “dost thou dream of him?”

Her companion sighed again more deeply than at first.

“Holy St. Catherine!” continued Benedetta, “if there were but one man in

the world, I would die single ere I would think of him, until, at least,

he had kissed my hand twice, and left it my own fault if it were not my

lips instead.”

The young lady still replied not.

“But how didst thou contrive to love him?” asked the nurse. “Thou canst

not have seen him very often: it is but some four or five weeks since

his return to Rome.”

“Oh, how dull art thou?” answered the fair Irene. “Have I not told thee

again and again, that I loved him six years ago?”

“When thou hadst told but thy tenth year, and a doll would have been thy

most suitable lover! As I am a Christian, Signora, thou hast made good

use of thy time.

“And during his absence,” continued the girl, fondly, yet sadly, “did

I not hear him spoken of, and was not the mere sound of his name like a

love-gift that bade me remember? And when they praised him, have I not

rejoiced? and when they blamed him, have I not resented? and when they

said that his lance was victorious in the tourney, did I not weep with

pride? and when they whispered that his vows were welcome in the bower,

wept I not as fervently with grief? Have not the six years of his

absence been a dream, and was not his return a waking into light--a

morning of glory and the sun? and I see him now in the church when he

wots not of me; and on his happy steed as he passes by my lattice: and

is not that enough of happiness for love?”

“But if he loves not thee?”

“Fool! I ask not that;--nay, I know not if I wish it. Perhaps I would

rather dream of him, such as I would have him, than know him for what

he is. He might be unkind, or ungenerous, or love me but little; rather

would I not be loved at all, than loved coldly, and eat away my heart by

comparing it with his. I can love him now as something abstract, unreal,

and divine: but what would be my shame, my grief, if I were to find him

less than I have imagined! Then, indeed, my life would have been wasted;

then, indeed, the beauty of the earth would be gone!”

The good nurse was not very capable of sympathizing with sentiments like

these. Even had their characters been more alike, their disparity of age

would have rendered such sympathy impossible. What but youth can echo

back the soul of youth--all the music of its wild vanities and romantic

follies? The good nurse did not sympathize with the sentiments of her

young lady, but she sympathised with the deep earnestness with which

they were expressed. She thought it wondrous silly, but wondrous moving;

she wiped her eyes with the corner of her veil, and hoped in her secret

heart that her young charge would soon get a real husband to put such

unsubstantial fantasies out of her head. There was a short pause in

their conversation, when, just where two streets crossed one another,

there was heard a loud noise of laughing voices and trampling feet.

Torches were seen on high affronting the pale light of the moon; and,

at a very short distance from the two females, in the cross street,

advanced a company of seven or eight men, bearing, as seen by the red

light of the torches, the formidable badge of the Orsini.

Amidst the other disorders of the time, it was no unfrequent custom

for the younger or more dissolute of the nobles, in small and armed

companies, to parade the streets at night, seeking occasion for a

licentious gallantry among the cowering citizens, or a skirmish at arms

with some rival stragglers of their own order. Such a band had Irene and

her companion now chanced to encounter.

“Holy mother!” cried Benedetta, turning pale, and half running, “what

curse has befallen us? How could we have been so foolish as to tarry so

late at the lady Nina’s! Run, Signora,--run, or we shall fall into their

hands!”

But the advice of Benedetta came too late,--the fluttering garments

of the women had been already descried: in a moment more they were

surrounded by the marauders. A rude hand tore aside Benedetta’s veil,

and at sight of features, which, if time had not spared, it could never

very materially injure, the rough aggressor cast the poor nurse against

the wall with a curse, which was echoed by a loud laugh from his

comrades.

“Thou hast a fine fortune in faces Giuseppe!”

“Yes; it was but the other day that he seized on a girl of sixty.”

“And then, by way of improving her beauty, cut her across the face with

his dagger, because she was not sixteen!”

“Hush, fellows! whom have we here?” said the chief of the party, a man

richly dressed, and who, though bordering upon middle age, had only

the more accustomed himself to the excesses of youth; as he spoke,

he snatched the trembling Irene from the grasp of his followers. “Ho,

there! the torches! Oh che bella faccia! what blushes--what eyes!--nay,

look not down, pretty one; thou needst not be ashamed to win the love

of an Orsini--yes; know the triumph thou hast achieved--it is Martino di

Porto who bids thee smile upon him!”

“For the blest Mother’s sake release me! Nay, sir, this must not be--I

am not unfriended--this insult shall not pass!”

“Hark to her silver chiding; it is better than my best hound’s bay!

This adventure is worth a month’s watching. What! will you not

come?--restive--shrieks too!--Francesco, Pietro, ye are the gentlest of

the band. Wrap her veil around her,--muffle this music;--so! bear her

before me to the palace, and tomorrow, sweet one, thou shalt go home

with a basket of florins which thou mayest say thou hast bought at

market.”

But Irene’s shrieks, Irene’s struggles, had already brought succour to

her side, and, as Adrian approached the spot, the nurse flung herself on

her knees before him.

“Oh, sweet signor, for Christ’s grace save us! Deliver my young

mistress--her friends love you well! We are all for the Colonna,

my lord; yes, indeed, all for the Colonna! Save the kin of your own

clients, gracious signor!”

“It is enough that she is a woman,” answered Adrian, adding, between his

teeth, “and that an Orsini is her assailant.” He strode haughtily into

the thickest of the group; the servitors laid hands on their swords, but

gave way before him as they recognised his person; he reached the two

men who had already seized Irene; in one moment he struck the foremost

to the ground, in another, he had passed his left arm round the light

and slender form of the maiden, and stood confronting the Orsini with

his drawn blade, which, however, he pointed to the ground.

“For shame, my lord--for shame!” said he, indignantly. “Will you force

Rome to rise, to a man, against our order? Vex not too far the lion,

chained though he be; war against us if ye will! draw your blades upon

men, though they be of your own race, and speak your own tongue: but

if ye would sleep at nights, and not dread the avenger’s gripe,--if ye

would walk the market-place secure,--wrong not a Roman woman! Yes, the

very walls around us preach to you the punishment of such a deed: for

that offence fell the Tarquins,--for that offence were swept away the

Decemvirs,--for that offence, if ye rush upon it, the blood of your

whole house may flow like water. Cease, then, my lord, from this mad

attempt, so unworthy your great name; cease, and thank even a Colonna

that he has come between you and a moment’s frenzy!”

So noble, so lofty were the air and gesture of Adrian, as he thus

spoke, that even the rude servitors felt a thrill of approbation and

remorse--not so Martino di Porto. He had been struck with the beauty of

the prey thus suddenly snatched from him; he had been accustomed to

long outrage and to long impunity; the very sight, the very voice of a

Colonna, was a blight to his eye and a discord to his ear: what, then,

when a Colonna interfered with his lusts, and rebuked his vices?

“Pedant!” he cried, with quivering lips, “prate not to me of thy vain

legends and gossip’s tales! think not to snatch from me my possession

in another, when thine own life is in my hands. Unhand the maiden! throw

down thy sword! return home without further parley, or, by my faith, and

the blades of my followers--(look at them well!)--thou diest!”

“Signor,” said Adrian, calmly, yet while he spoke he retreated gradually

with his fair burthen towards the neighbouring wall, so as at least to

leave only his front exposed to those fearful odds: “Thou will not so

misuse the present chances, and wrong thyself in men’s mouths, as to

attack with eight swords even thy hereditary foe, thus cumbered, too, as

he is. But--nay hold!--if thou art so proposed, bethink thee well, one

cry of my voice would soon turn the odds against thee. Thou art now in

the quarter of my tribe; thou art surrounded by the habitations of the

Colonna: yon palace swarms with men who sleep not, save with harness

on their backs; men whom my voice can reach even now, but from whom, if

they once taste of blood, it could not save thee!”

“He speaks true, noble Lord,” said one of the band: “we have wandered

too far out of our beat; we are in their very den; the palace of old

Stephen Colonna is within call; and, to my knowledge,” added he, in

a whisper, “eighteen fresh men-of-arms--ay, and Northmen too--marched

through its gates this day.”

“Were there eight hundred men at arm’s length,” answered Martino

furiously, “I would not be thus bearded amidst mine own train! Away with

yon woman! To the attack! to the attack!”

Thus saying, he made a desperate lunge at Adrian, who, having kept his

eye cautiously on the movements of his enemy, was not unprepared for the

assault. As he put aside the blade with his own, he shouted with a loud

voice--“Colonna! to the rescue, Colonna!”

Nor had it been without an ulterior object that the acute and

self-controlling mind of Adrian had hitherto sought to prolong the

parley. Even as he first addressed Orsini, he had perceived, by the

moonlight, the glitter of armour upon two men advancing from the far end

of the street, and judged at once, by the neighbourhood, that they must

be among the mercenaries of the Colonna.

Gently he suffered the form of Irene, which now, for she had swooned

with the terror, pressed too heavily upon him, to slide from his left

arm, and standing over her form, while sheltered from behind by the wall

which he had so warily gained, he contented himself with parrying the

blows hastily aimed at him, without attempting to retaliate. Few of the

Romans, however accustomed to such desultory warfare, were then well

and dexterously practised in the use of arms; and the science Adrian had

acquired in the schools of the martial north, befriended him now, even

against such odds. It is true, indeed, that the followers of Orsini did

not share the fury of their lord; partly afraid of the consequence to

themselves should the blood of so highborn a signor be spilt by their

hands, partly embarrassed with the apprehension that they should see

themselves suddenly beset with the ruthless hirelings so close within

hearing, they struck but aimless and random blows, looking every moment

behind and aside, and rather prepared for flight than slaughter. Echoing

the cry of “Colonna,” poor Benedetta fled at the first clash of swords.

She ran down the dreary street still shrieking that cry, and passed the

very portals of Stephen’s palace (where some grim forms yet loitered)

without arresting her steps there, so great were her confusion and

terror.

Meanwhile, the two armed men, whom Adrian had descried, proceeded

leisurely up the street. The one was of a rude and common mould, his

arms and his complexion testified his calling and race; and by the great

respect he paid to his companion, it was evident that that companion was

no native of Italy. For the brigands of the north, while they served the

vices of the southern, scarce affected to disguise their contempt for

his cowardice.

The companion of the brigand was a man of a martial, yet easy air. He

wore no helmet, but a cap of crimson velvet, set off with a white plume;

on his mantle, or surcoat, which was of scarlet, was wrought a broad

white cross, both at back and breast; and so brilliant was the polish

of his corselet, that, as from time to time the mantle waved aside and

exposed it to the moonbeams, it glittered like light itself.

“Nay, Rodolf,” said he, “if thou hast so good a lot of it here with that

hoary schemer, Heaven forbid that I should wish to draw thee back again

to our merry band. But tell me--this Rienzi--thinkest thou he has any

solid and formidable power?”

“Pshaw! noble chieftain, not a whit of it. He pleases the mob; but as

for the nobles, they laugh at him; and, as for the soldiers, he has no

money!”

“He pleases the mob, then!”

“Ay, that doth he; and when he speaks aloud to them, all the roar of

Rome is hushed.”

“Humph!--when nobles are hated, and soldiers are bought, a mob may, in

any hour, become the master. An honest people and a weak mob,--a corrupt

people and a strong mob,” said the other, rather to himself than to

his comrade, and scarce, perhaps, conscious of the eternal truth of his

aphorism. “He is no mere brawler, this Rienzi, I suspect--I must see to

it. Hark! what noise is that? By the Holy Sepulchre, it is the ring of

our own metal!”

“And that cry--‘a Colonna!’” exclaimed Rodolf. “Pardon me, master,--I

must away to the rescue!”

“Ay, it is the duty of thy hire; run;--yet stay, I will accompany thee,

gratis for once, and from pure passion for mischief. By this hand, there

is no music like clashing steel!”

Still Adrian continued gallantly and unwounded to defend himself, though

his arm now grew tired, his breath well-nigh spent, and his eyes began

to wink and reel beneath the glare of the tossing torches. Orsini

himself, exhausted by his fury, had paused for an instant, fronting

his foe with a heaving breast and savage looks, when, suddenly,

his followers exclaimed, “Fly! fly!--the bandits approach--we are

surrounded!”--and two of the servitors, without further parley, took

fairly to their heels. The other five remained irresolute, and waiting

but the command of their master, when he of the white plume, whom I have

just described, thrust himself into the melee.

“What! gentles,” said he, “have ye finished already? Nay, let us not

mar the sport; begin again, I beseech you. What are the odds? Ho! six

to one!--nay, no wonder that ye have waited for fairer play. See, we two

will take the weaker side. Now then, let us begin again.”

“Insolent!” cried the Orsini. “Knowest thou him whom thou addressest

thus arrogantly?--I am Martino di Porto. Who art thou?”

“Walter de Montreal, gentleman of Provence, and Knight of St. John!”

answered the other, carelessly.

At that redoubted name--the name of one of the boldest warriors, and of

the most accomplished freebooter of his time--even Martino’s cheek grew

pale, and his followers uttered a cry of terror.

“And this, my comrade,” continued the Knight, “for we may as well

complete the introduction, is probably better known to you than I am,

gentles of Rome; and you doubtless recognize in him Rodolf of Saxony, a

brave man and a true, where he is properly paid for his services.”

“Signor,” said Adrian to his enemy, who, aghast and dumb, remained

staring vacantly at the two new-comers, “you are now in my power. See,

our own people, too, are approaching.”

And, indeed, from the palace of Stephen Colonna, torches began to blaze,

and armed men were seen rapidly advancing to the spot.

“Go home in peace, and if, tomorrow, or any day more suitable to thee,

thou wilt meet me alone, and lance to lance, as is the wont of the

knights of the empire; or with band to band, and man for man, as is

rather the Roman custom; I will not fail thee--there is my gage.”

“Nobly spoken,” said Montreal; “and, if ye choose the latter, by your

leave, I will be one of the party.”

Martino answered not; he took up the glove, thrust it in his bosom, and

strode hastily away; only, when he had got some paces down the street,

he turned back, and, shaking his clenched hand at Adrian, exclaimed, in

a voice trembling with impotent rage--“Faithful to death!”

The words made one of the mottoes of the Orsini; and, whatever its

earlier signification, had long passed into a current proverb, to

signify their hatred to the Colonna.

Adrian, now engaged in raising, and attempting to revive Irene, who was

still insensible, disdainfully left it to Montreal to reply.

“I doubt not, Signor,” said the latter, coolly, “that thou wilt be

faithful to Death: for Death, God wot, is the only contract which men,

however ingenious, are unable to break or evade.”

“Pardon me, gentle Knight,” said Adrian, looking up from his charge, “if

I do not yet give myself wholly to gratitude. I have learned enough of

knighthood to feel thou wilt acknowledge that my first duty is here--”

“Oh, a lady, then, was the cause of the quarrel! I need not ask who

was in the right, when a man brings to the rivalry such odds as yon

caitiff.”

“Thou mistakest a little, Sir Knight,--it is but a lamb I have rescued

from the wolf.”

“For thy own table! Be it so!” returned the Knight, gaily.

Adrian smiled gravely, and shook his head in denial. In truth, he was

somewhat embarrassed by his situation. Though habitually gallant, he was

not willing to expose to misconstruction the disinterestedness of his

late conduct, and (for it was his policy to conciliate popularity) to

sully the credit which his bravery would give him among the citizens,

by conveying Irene (whose beauty, too, as yet, he had scarcely noted)

to his own dwelling; and yet, in her present situation, there was no

alternative. She evinced no sign of life. He knew not her home, nor

parentage. Benedetta had vanished. He could not leave her in the

streets; he could not resign her to the care of another; and, as she lay

now upon his breast, he felt her already endeared to him, by that sense

of protection which is so grateful to the human heart. He briefly,

therefore, explained to those now gathered round him, his present

situation, and the cause of the past conflict; and bade the

torch-bearers precede him to his home.

“You, Sir Knight,” added he, turning to Montreal, “if not already more

pleasantly lodged, will, I trust, deign to be my guest?”

“Thanks, Signor,” answered Montreal, maliciously, “but I, also, perhaps,

have my own affairs to watch over. Adieu! I shall seek you at the

earliest occasion. Fair night, and gentle dreams!

‘Robers Bertrams qui estoit tors Mais a ceval estoit mult fors

Cil avoit o lui grans effors Multi ot ‘homes per lui mors.’”

(“An ill-favoured man, but a stout horseman, was Robert

Bertram. Great deeds were his, and many a man died by his

hand.”)

And, muttering this rugged chant from the old “Roman de Rou,” the

Provencal, followed by Rodolf, pursued his way.

The vast extent of Rome, and the thinness of its population, left many

of the streets utterly deserted. The principal nobles were thus

enabled to possess themselves of a wide range of buildings, which they

fortified, partly against each other, partly against the people; their

numerous relatives and clients lived around them, forming, as it were,

petty courts and cities in themselves.

Almost opposite to the principal palace of the Colonna (occupied by his

powerful kinsman, Stephen) was the mansion of Adrian. Heavily swung back

the massive gates at his approach; he ascended the broad staircase, and

bore his charge into an apartment which his tastes had decorated in a

fashion not as yet common in that age. Ancient statues and busts were

arranged around; the pictured arras of Lombardy decorated the walls, and

covered the massive seats.

“What ho! Lights here, and wine!” cried the Seneschal.

“Leave us alone,” said Adrian, gazing passionately on the pale cheek of

Irene, as he now, by the clear light, beheld all its beauty; and a sweet

yet burning hope crept into his heart.

Chapter 1.V. The Description of a Conspirator, and the Dawn of the

Conspiracy.

Alone, by a table covered with various papers, sat a man in the prime

of life. The chamber was low and long; many antique and disfigured

bas-reliefs and torsos were placed around the wall, interspersed, here

and there, with the short sword and close casque, time-worn relics of

the prowess of ancient Rome. Right above the table at which he sate, the

moonlight streamed through a high and narrow casement, deep sunk in the

massy wall. In a niche to the right of this window, guarded by a sliding

door, which was now partially drawn aside--but which, by its solid

substance, and the sheet of iron with which it was plated, testified how

valuable, in the eyes of the owner, was the treasure it protected--were

ranged some thirty or forty volumes, then deemed no inconsiderable

library; and being, for the most part, the laborious copies in

manuscript by the hand of the owner, from immortal originals.

Leaning his cheek on his hand, his brow somewhat knit, his lip slightly

compressed, that personage, indulged in meditations far other than the

indolent dreams of scholars. As the high and still moonlight shone upon

his countenance, it gave an additional and solemn dignity to features

which were naturally of a grave and majestic cast. Thick and auburn

hair, the colour of which, not common to the Romans, was ascribed to his

descent from the Teuton emperor, clustered in large curls above a high

and expansive forehead; and even the present thoughtful compression of

the brow could not mar the aspect of latent power, which it derived from

that great breadth between the eyes, in which the Grecian sculptors of

old so admirably conveyed the expression of authority, and the silent

energy of command. But his features were not cast in the Grecian, still

less in the Teuton mould. The iron jaw, the aquiline nose, the somewhat

sunken cheek, strikingly recalled the character of the hard Roman

race, and might not inaptly have suggested to a painter a model for the

younger Brutus.

The marked outline of the face, and the short, firm upper lip, were not

concealed by the beard and mustachios usually then worn; and, in the

faded portrait of the person now described, still extant at Rome, may

be traced a certain resemblance to the popular pictures of Napoleon;

not indeed in the features, which are more stern and prominent in the

portrait of the Roman, but in that peculiar expression of concentrated

and tranquil power which so nearly realizes the ideal of intellectual

majesty. Though still young, the personal advantages most peculiar to

youth,--the bloom and glow, the rounded cheek in which care has not yet

ploughed its lines, the full unsunken eye, and the slender delicacy of

frame,--these were not the characteristics of that solitary student.

And, though considered by his contemporaries as eminently handsome, the

judgment was probably formed less from the more vulgar claims to such

distinction, than from the height of the stature, an advantage at that

time more esteemed than at present, and that nobler order of beauty

which cultivated genius and commanding character usually stamp upon even

homely features;--the more rare in an age so rugged.

The character of Rienzi (for the youth presented to the reader in the

first chapter of this history is now again before him in maturer years)

had acquired greater hardness and energy with each stepping-stone

to power. There was a circumstance attendant on his birth which had,

probably, exercised great and early influence on his ambition. Though

his parents were in humble circumstances, and of lowly calling, his

father was the natural son of the Emperor, Henry VII.; (De Sade supposes

that the mother of Rienzi was the daughter of an illegitimate son of

Henry VII., supporting his opinion from a MS. in the Vatican. But,

according to the contemporaneous biographer, Rienzi, in addressing

Charles, king of Bohemia claims the relationship from his father “Di

vostro legnaggio sono--figlio di bastardo d’Enrico imperatore,” &c. A

more recent writer, il Padre Gabrini, cites an inscription in support of

this descent: “Nicolaus Tribunus...Laurentii Teutonici Filius,” &c.)

and it was the pride of the parents that probably gave to Rienzi

the unwonted advantages of education. This pride transmitted to

himself,--his descent from royalty dinned into his ear, infused into his

thoughts, from his cradle,--made him, even in his earliest youth, deem

himself the equal of the Roman signors, and half unconsciously aspire

to be their superior. But, as the literature of Rome was unfolded to

his eager eye and ambitious heart, he became imbued with that pride of

country which is nobler than the pride of birth; and, save when stung by

allusions to his origin, he unaffectedly valued himself more on being

a Roman plebeian than the descendant of a Teuton king. His brother’s

death, and the vicissitudes he himself had already undergone, deepened

the earnest and solemn qualities of his character; and, at length, all

the faculties of a very uncommon intellect were concentrated into one

object--which borrowed from a mind strongly and mystically religious,

as well as patriotic, a sacred aspect, and grew at once a duty and a

passion.

“Yes,” said Rienzi, breaking suddenly from his revery, “yes, the day

is at hand when Rome shall rise again from her ashes; Justice shall

dethrone Oppression; men shall walk safe in their ancient Forum. We will

rouse from his forgotten tomb the indomitable soul of Cato! There shall

be a people once more in Rome! And I--I shall be the instrument of that

triumph--the restorer of my race! mine shall be the first voice to swell

the battle-cry of freedom--mine the first hand to rear her banner--yes,

from the height of my own soul as from a mountain, I see already rising

the liberties and the grandeur of the New Rome; and on the corner-stone

of the mighty fabric posterity shall read my name.”

Uttering these lofty boasts, the whole person of the speaker seemed

instinct with his ambition. He strode the gloomy chamber with light and

rapid steps, as if on air; his breast heaved, his eyes glowed. He felt

that love itself can scarcely bestow a rapture equal to that which is

felt, in his first virgin enthusiasm, by a patriot who knows himself

sincere!

There was a slight knock at the door, and a servitor, in the rich

liveries worn by the pope’s officials, (Not the present hideous

habiliments, which are said to have been the invention of Michael

Angelo.) presented himself.

“Signor,” said he, “my Lord, the Bishop of Orvietto, is without.”

“Ha! that is fortunate. Lights there!--My Lord, this is an honour which

I can estimate better than express.”

“Tut, tut! my good friend,” said the Bishop, entering, and seating

himself familiarly, “no ceremonies between the servants of the Church;

and never, I ween well, had she greater need of true friends than now.

These unholy tumults, these licentious contentions, in the very shrines

and city of St. Peter, are sufficient to scandalize all Christendom.”

“And so will it be,” said Rienzi, “until his Holiness himself shall

be graciously persuaded to fix his residence in the seat of his

predecessors, and curb with a strong arm the excesses of the nobles.”

“Alas, man!” said the Bishop, “thou knowest that these words are but as

wind; for were the Pope to fulfil thy wishes, and remove from Avignon to

Rome, by the blood of St. Peter! he would not curb the nobles, but

the nobles would curb him. Thou knowest well that until his blessed

predecessor, of pious memory, conceived the wise design of escaping

to Avignon, the Father of the Christian world was but like many other

fathers in their old age, controlled and guarded by his rebellious

children. Recollectest thou not how the noble Boniface himself, a man of

great heart, and nerves of iron, was kept in thraldom by the ancestors

of the Orsini--his entrances and exits made but at their will--so that,

like a caged eagle, he beat himself against his bars and died? Verily,

thou talkest of the memories of Rome--these are not the memories that

are very attractive to popes.”

“Well,” said Rienzi, laughing gently, and drawing his seat nearer to the

Bishop’s, “my Lord has certainly the best of the argument at present;

and I must own, that strong, licentious, and unhallowed as the order of

nobility was then, it is yet more so now.”

“Even I,” rejoined Raimond, colouring as he spoke, “though Vicar of the

Pope, and representative of his spiritual authority, was, but three days

ago, subjected to a coarse affront from that very Stephen Colonna, who

has ever received such favour and tenderness from the Holy See. His

servitors jostled mine in the open streets, and I myself,--I, the

delegate of the sire of kings--was forced to draw aside to the wall,

and wait until the hoary insolent swept by. Nor were blaspheming words

wanting to complete the insult. ‘Pardon, Lord Bishop,’ said he, as

he passed me; ‘but this world, thou knowest, must necessarily take

precedence of the other.’”

“Dared he so high?” said Rienzi, shading his face with his hand, as a

very peculiar smile--scarcely itself joyous, though it made others gay,

and which completely changed the character of his face, naturally grave

even to sternness--played round his lips. “Then it is time for thee,

holy father, as for us, to--”

“To what?” interrupted the Bishop, quickly. “Can we effect aught!

Dismiss thy enthusiastic dreamings--descend to the real earth--look

soberly round us. Against men so powerful, what can we do?”

“My Lord,” answered Rienzi, gravely, “it is the misfortune of signors of

your rank never to know the people, or the accurate signs of the time.

As those who pass over the heights of mountains see the clouds sweep

below, veiling the plains and valleys from their gaze, while they, only

a little above the level, survey the movements and the homes of men;

even so from your lofty eminence ye behold but the indistinct and sullen

vapours--while from my humbler station I see the preparations of the

shepherds, to shelter themselves and herds from the storm which those

clouds betoken. Despair not, my Lord; endurance goes but to a certain

limit--to that limit it is already stretched; Rome waits but the

occasion (it will soon come, but not suddenly) to rise simultaneously

against her oppressors.”

The great secret of eloquence is to be in earnest--the great secret of

Rienzi’s eloquence was in the mightiness of his enthusiasm. He never

spoke as one who doubted of success. Perhaps, like most men who

undertake high and great actions, he himself was never thoroughly aware

of the obstacles in his way. He saw the end, bright and clear, and

overleaped, in the vision of his soul, the crosses and the length of

the path; thus the deep convictions of his own mind stamped themselves

irresistibly upon others. He seemed less to promise than to prophesy.

The Bishop of Orvietto, not over wise, yet a man of cool temperament

and much worldly experience, was forcibly impressed by the energy of his

companion; perhaps, indeed, the more so, inasmuch as his own pride and

his own passions were also enlisted against the arrogance and licence of

the nobles. He paused ere he replied to Rienzi.

“But is it,” he asked, at length, “only the plebeians who will rise?

Thou knowest how they are caitiff and uncertain.”

“My Lord,” answered Rienzi, “judge, by one fact, how strongly I am

surrounded by friends of no common class: thou knowest how loudly

I speak against the nobles--I cite them by their name--I beard the

Savelli, the Orsini, the Colonna, in their very hearing. Thinkest thou

that they forgive me? thinkest thou that, were only the plebeians my

safeguard and my favourers, they would not seize me by open force,--that

I had not long ere this found a gag in their dungeons, or been swallowed

up in the eternal dumbness of the grave? Observe,” continued he, as,

reading the Vicar’s countenance, he perceived the impression he had

made--“observe, that, throughout the whole world, a great revolution has

begun. The barbaric darkness of centuries has been broken; the Knowledge

which made men as demigods in the past time has been called from her

urn; a Power, subtler than brute force, and mightier than armed men, is

at work; we have begun once more to do homage to the Royalty of Mind.

Yes, that same Power which, a few years ago, crowned Petrarch in the

Capitol, when it witnessed, after the silence of twelve centuries, the

glories of a Triumph,--which heaped upon a man of obscure birth, and

unknown in arms, the same honours given of old to emperors and the

vanquishers of kings,--which united in one act of homage even the rival

houses of Colonna and Orsini,--which made the haughtiest patricians

emulous to bear the train, to touch but the purple robe, of the son of

the Florentine plebeian,--which still draws the eyes of Europe to

the lowly cottage of Vaucluse,--which gives to the humble student the

all-acknowledged licence to admonish tyrants, and approach, with haughty

prayers, even the Father of the Church;--yes, that same Power, which,

working silently throughout Italy, murmurs under the solid base of

the Venetian oligarchy; (It was about eight years afterwards that the

long-smothered hate of the Venetian people to that wisest and most

vigilant of all oligarchies, the Sparta of Italy, broke out in the

conspiracy under Marino Faliero.) which, beyond the Alps, has wakened

into visible and sudden life in Spain, in Germany, in Flanders; and

which, even in that barbarous Isle, conquered by the Norman sword, ruled

by the bravest of living kings, (Edward III., in whose reign opinions

far more popular than those of the following century began to work. The

Civil Wars threw back the action into the blood. It was indeed an age

throughout the world which put forth abundant blossoms, but crude and

unripened fruit;--a singular leap, followed by as singular a pause.)

has roused a spirit Norman cannot break--kings to rule over must rule

by--yes, that same Power is everywhere abroad: it speaks, it conquers in

the voice even of him who is before you; it unites in his cause all on

whom but one glimmering of light has burst, all in whom one generous

desire can be kindled! Know, Lord Vicar, that there is not a man in

Rome, save our oppressors themselves--not a man who has learned one

syllable of our ancient tongue--whose heart and sword are not with me.

The peaceful cultivators of letters--the proud nobles of the second

order--the rising race, wiser than their slothful sires; above all, my

Lord, the humbler ministers of religion, priests and monks, whom luxury

hath not blinded, pomp hath not deafened, to the monstrous outrage to

Christianity daily and nightly perpetrated in the Christian Capital;

these,--all these,--are linked with the merchant and the artisan in one

indissoluble bond, waiting but the signal to fall or to conquer, to live

freemen, or to die martyrs, with Rienzi and their country!”

“Sayest thou so in truth?” said the Bishop, startled, and half rising.

“Prove but thy words, and thou shalt not find the ministers of God are

less eager than their lay brethren for the happiness of men.”

“What I say,” rejoined Rienzi, in a cooler tone, “that can I show; but I

may only prove it to those who will be with us.”

“Fear me not,” answered Raimond: “I know well the secret mind of his

Holiness, whose delegate and representative I am; and could he see but

the legitimate and natural limit set to the power of the patricians,

who, in their arrogance, have set at nought the authority of the Church

itself, be sure that he would smile on the hand that drew the line.

Nay, so certain of this am I, that if ye succeed, I, his responsible but

unworthy vicar, will myself sanction the success. But beware of crude

attempts; the Church must not be weakened by linking itself to failure.”

“Right, my Lord,” answered Rienzi; “and in this, the policy of religion

is that of freedom. Judge of my prudence by my long delay. He who can

see all around him impatient--himself not less so--and yet suppress the

signal, and bide the hour, is not likely to lose his cause by rashness.”

“More, then, of this anon,” said the Bishop, resettling himself in his

seat. “As thy plans mature, fear not to communicate with me. Believe

that Rome has no firmer friend then he who, ordained to preserve order,

finds himself impotent against aggression. Meanwhile, to the object of

my present visit, which links itself, in some measure, perhaps, with the

topics on which we have conversed...Thou knowest that when his Holiness

intrusted thee with thy present office, he bade thee also announce his

beneficent intention of granting a general Jubilee at Rome for the year

1350--a most admirable design for two reasons, sufficiently apparent

to thyself: first, that every Christian soul that may undertake the

pilgrimage to Rome on that occasion, may thus obtain a general remission

of sins; and secondly, because, to speak carnally, the concourse of

pilgrims so assembled, usually, by the donations and offerings their

piety suggests, very materially add to the revenues of the Holy See:

at this time, by the way, in no very flourishing condition. This thou

knowest, dear Rienzi.”

Rienzi bowed his head in assent, and the prelate continued--

“Well, it is with the greatest grief that his Holiness perceives that

his pious intentions are likely to be frustrated: for so fierce and

numerous are now the brigands in the public approaches to Rome, that,

verily, the boldest pilgrim may tremble a little to undertake the

journey; and those who do so venture will, probably, be composed of the

poorest of the Christian community,--men who, bringing with them neither

gold, nor silver, nor precious offerings, will have little to fear from

the rapacity of the brigands. Hence arise two consequences: on the

one hand, the rich--whom, Heaven knows, and the Gospel has, indeed,

expressly declared, have the most need of a remission of sins--will be

deprived of this glorious occasion for absolution; and, on the other

hand, the coffers of the Church will be impiously defrauded of that

wealth which it would otherwise doubtless obtain from the zeal of her

children.”

“Nothing can be more logically manifest, my Lord,” said Rienzi.

The Vicar continued--“Now, in letters received five days since from his

Holiness, he bade me expose these fearful consequences to Christianity

to the various patricians who are legitimately fiefs of the Church, and

command their resolute combination against the marauders of the road.

With these have I conferred, and vainly.”

“For by the aid, and from the troops, of those very brigands, these

patricians have fortified their palaces against each other,” added

Rienzi.

“Exactly for that reason,” rejoined the Bishop. “Nay, Stephen Colonna

himself had the audacity to confess it. Utterly unmoved by the loss to

so many precious souls, and, I may add, to the papal treasury, which

ought to be little less dear to right-discerning men, they refuse

to advance a step against the bandits. Now, then, hearken the second

mandate of his Holiness:--‘Failing the nobles,’ saith he, in his

prophetic sagacity, ‘confer with Cola di Rienzi. He is a bold man, and a

pious, and, thou tellest me, of great weight with the people; and say to

him, that if his wit can devise the method for extirpating these sons

of Belial, and rendering a safe passage along the public ways, largely,

indeed, will he merit at our hands,--lasting will be the gratitude we

shall owe to him; and whatever succour thou, and the servants of our

See, can render to him, let it not be stinted.’”

“Said his Holiness thus!” exclaimed Rienzi. “I ask no more--the

gratitude is mine that he hath thought thus of his servant, and

intrusted me with this charge; at once I accept it--at once I pledge

myself to success. Let us, my Lord, let us, then, clearly understand

the limits ordained to my discretion. To curb the brigands without the

walls, I must have authority over those within. If I undertake, at peril

of my life, to clear all the avenues to Rome of the robbers who now

infest it, shall I have full licence for conduct bold, peremptory, and

severe?”

“Such conduct the very nature of the charge demands,” replied Raimond.

“Ay,--even though it be exercised against the arch offenders--against

the supporters of the brigands--against the haughtiest of the nobles

themselves?”

The Bishop paused, and looked hard in the face of the speaker. “I

repeat,” said he, at length, sinking his voice, and with a significant

tone, “in these bold attempts, success is the sole sanction. Succeed,

and we will excuse thee all--even to the--”

“Death of a Colonna or an Orsini, should justice demand it; and provided

it be according to the law, and only incurred by the violation of the

law!” added Rienzi, firmly.

The Bishop did not reply in words, but a slight motion of his head was

sufficient answer to Rienzi.

“My Lord,” said he, “from this time, then, all is well; I date the

revolution--the restoration of order, of the state--from this hour, this

very conference. Till now, knowing that justice must never wink upon

great offenders, I had hesitated, through fear lest thou and his

Holiness might deem it severity, and blame him who replaces the law,

because he smites the violaters of law. Now I judge ye more rightly.

Your hand, my Lord.”

The Bishop extended his hand; Rienzi grasped it firmly, and then raised

it respectfully to his lips. Both felt that the compact was sealed.

This conference, so long in recital, was short in the reality; but its

object was already finished, and the Bishop rose to depart. The outer

portal of the house was opened, the numerous servitors of the Bishop

held on high their torches, and he had just termed from Rienzi, who

had attended him to the gate, when a female passed hastily through the

Prelate’s train, and starting as she beheld Rienzi, flung herself at his

feet.

“Oh, hasten, Sir! hasten, for the love of God, hasten! or the young

Signora is lost for ever!”

“The Signora!--Heaven and earth, Benedetta, of whom do you speak?--of my

sister--of Irene? is she not within?”

“Oh, Sir--the Orsini--the Orsini!”

“What of them?--speak, woman!”

Here, breathlessly, and with many a break, Benedetta recounted to

Rienzi, in whom the reader has already recognised the brother of Irene,

so far of the adventure with Martino di Porto as she had witnessed: of

the termination and result of the contest she knew nought.

Rienzi listened in silence; but the deadly paleness of his countenance,

and the writhing of the nether lip, testified the emotions to which he

gave no audible vent.

“You hear, my Lord Bishop--you hear,” said he, when Benedetta had

concluded; and turning to the Bishop, whose departure the narrative had

delayed--“you hear to what outrage the citizens of Rome are subjected.

My hat and sword! instantly! My Lord, forgive my abruptness.”

“Whither art thou bent, then?” asked Raimond.

“Whither--whither!--Ay, I forgot, my Lord, you have no sister. Perhaps

too, you had no brother?--No, no; one victim at least I will live to

save. Whither, you ask me?--to the palace of Martino di Porto.”

“To an Orsini alone, and for justice?”

“Alone, and for justice!--No!” shouted Rienzi, in a loud voice, as he

seized his sword, now brought to him by one of his servants, and rushed

from the house; “but one man is sufficient for revenge!”

The Bishop paused for a moment’s deliberation. “He must not be lost,”

muttered he, “as he well may be, if exposed thus solitary to the wolf’s

rage. What, ho!” he cried aloud; “advance the torches!--quick, quick! We

ourself--we, the Vicar of the Pope--will see to this. Calm yourselves,

good people; your young Signora shall be restored. On! to the palace of

Martino di Porto!”

Chapter 1.VI. Irene in the Palace of Adrian di Castello.

As the Cyprian gazed on the image in which he had embodied a youth of

dreams, what time the living hues flushed slowly beneath the marble,--so

gazed the young and passionate Adrian upon the form reclined before him,

re-awakening gradually to life. And, if the beauty of that face were

not of the loftiest or the most dazzling order, if its soft and quiet

character might be outshone by many, of loveliness less really perfect,

yet never was there a countenance that, to some eyes, would have seemed

more charming, and never one in which more eloquently was wrought that

ineffable and virgin expression which Italian art seeks for in its

models,--in which modesty is the outward, and tenderness the latent,

expression; the bloom of youth, both of form and heart, ere the first

frail and delicate freshness of either is brushed away: and when even

love itself, the only unquiet visitant that should be known at such an

age, is but a sentiment, and not a passion!

“Benedetta!” murmured Irene, at length opening her eyes, unconsciously,

upon him who knelt beside her,--eyes of that uncertain, that most liquid

hue, on which you might gaze for years and never learn the secret of the

colour, so changed it with the dilating pupil,--darkening in the shade,

and brightening into azure in the light:

“Benedetta,” said Irene, “where art thou? Oh, Benedetta! I have had such

a dream.”

“And I, too, such a vision!” thought Adrian.

“Where am I?” cried Irene, rising from the couch. “This room--these

hangings--Holy Virgin! do I dream still!--and you! Heavens!--it is the

Lord Adrian di Castello!”

“Is that a name thou hast been taught to fear?” said Adrian; “if so, I

will forswear it.”

If Irene now blushed deeply, it was not in that wild delight with which

her romantic heart motive foretold that she would listen to the

first words of homage from Adrian di Castello. Bewildered and

confused,--terrified at the strangeness of the place and shrinking even

from the thought of finding herself alone with one who for years had

been present to her fancies,--alarm and distress were the emotions

she felt the most, and which most were impressed upon her speaking

countenance; and as Adrian now drew nearer to her, despite the

gentleness of his voice and the respect of his looks, her fears, not the

less strong that they were vague, increased upon her: she retreated to

the further end of the room, looked wildly round her, and then, covering

her face with her hands, burst into a paroxysm of tears.

Moved himself by these tears, and divining her thoughts, Adrian forgot

for moment all the more daring wishes he had formed.

“Fear not, sweet lady,” said he, earnestly: “recollect thyself, I

beseech thee; no peril, no evil can reach thee here; it was this hand

that saved thee from the outrage of the Orsini--this roof is but the

shelter of a friend! Tell me, then, fair wonder, thy name and residence,

and I will summon my servitors, and guard thee to thy home at once.”

Perhaps the relief of tears, even more than Adrian’s words, restored

Irene to herself, and enabled her to comprehend her novel situation;

and as her senses, thus cleared, told her what she owed to him whom her

dreams had so long imaged as the ideal of all excellence, she recovered

her self-possession, and uttered her thanks with a grace not the less

winning, if it still partook of embarrassment.

“Thank me not,” answered Adrian, passionately. “I have touched thy

hand--I am repaid. Repaid! nay, all gratitude--all homage is for me to

render!”

Blushing again, but with far different emotions than before, Irene,

after a momentary pause, replied, “Yet, my Lord, I must consider it a

debt the more weighty that you speak of it so lightly. And now, complete

the obligation. I do not see my companion--suffer her to accompany me

home; it is but a short way hence.”

“Blessed, then, is the air that I have breathed so unconsciously!” said

Adrian. “But thy companion, dear lady, is not here. She fled, I imagine,

in the confusion of the conflict; and not knowing thy name, nor being

able, in thy then state, to learn it from thy lips, it was my happy

necessity to convey thee hither;--but I will be thy companion. Nay, why

that timid glance? my people, also, shall attend us.”

“My thanks, noble Lord, are of little worth; my brother, who is not

unknown to thee, will thank thee more fittingly. May I depart?” and

Irene, as she spoke, was already at the door.

“Art thou so eager to leave me?” answered Adrian, sadly. “Alas! when

thou hast departed from my eyes, it will seem as if the moon had left

the night!--but it is happiness to obey thy wishes, even though they

tear thee from me.”

A slight smile parted Irene’s lips, and Adrian’s heart beat audibly

to himself, as he drew from that smile, and those downcast eyes, no

unfavourable omen.

Reluctantly and slowly he turned towards the door, and summoned his

attendants. “But,” said he, as they stood on the lofty staircase, “thou

sayest, sweet lady, that thy brother’s name is not unknown to me. Heaven

grant that he be, indeed, a friend of the Colonna!”

“His boast,” answered Irene, evasively; “the boast of Cola di Rienzi is,

to be a friend to the friends of Rome.”

“Holy Virgin of Ara Coeli!--is thy brother that extraordinary man?”

exclaimed Adrian, as he foresaw, at the mention of that name, a barrier

to his sudden passion. “Alas! in a Colonna, in a noble, he will see no

merit; even though thy fortunate deliverer, sweet maiden, sought to be

his early friend!”

“Thou wrongest him much, my Lord,” returned Irene, warmly; “he is a man

above all others to sympathize with thy generous valour, even had it

been exerted in defence of the humblest woman in Rome,--how much more,

then, when in protection of his sister!”

“The times are, indeed, diseased,” answered Adrian, thoughtfully, as

they now found themselves in the open street, “when men who alike mourn

for the woes of their country are yet suspicious of each other; when to

be a patrician is to be regarded as an enemy to the people; when to

be termed the friend of the people is to be considered a foe to the

patricians: but come what may, oh! let me hope, dear lady, that no

doubts, no divisions, shall banish from thy breast one gentle memory of

me!”

“Ah! little, little do you know me!” began Irene, and stopped suddenly

short.

“Speak! speak again!--of what music has this envious silence deprived my

soul! Thou wilt not, then, forget me? And,” continued Adrian, “we shall

meet again? It is to Rienzi’s house we are bound now; tomorrow I shall

visit my old companion,--tomorrow I shall see thee. Will it not be so?”

In Irene’s silence was her answer.

“And as thou hast told me thy brother’s name, make it sweet to my ear,

and add to it thine own.”

“They call me Irene.”

“Irene, Irene!--let me repeat it. It is a soft name, and dwells upon the

lips as if loath to leave them--a fitting name for one like thee.”

Thus making his welcome court to Irene, in that flowered and glowing

language which, if more peculiar to that age and to the gallantry of

the south, is also the language in which the poetry of youthful passion

would, in all times and lands, utter its rich extravagance, could heart

speak to heart, Adrian conveyed homeward his beautiful charge, taking,

however, the most circuitous and lengthened route; an artifice which

Irene either perceived not, or silently forgave. They were now within

sight of the street in which Rienzi dwelt, when a party of men bearing

torches, came unexpectedly upon them. It was the train of the Bishop of

Orvietto, returning from the palace of Martino di Porto, and in their

way (accompanied by Rienzi) to that of Adrian. They had learned at the

former, without an interview with the Orsini, from the retainers in

the court below, the fortune of the conflict, and the name of Irene’s

champion; and, despite Adrian’s general reputation for gallantry, Rienzi

knew enough of his character, and the nobleness of his temper, to feel

assured that Irene was safe in his protection. Alas! in that very safety

to the person is often the most danger to the heart. Woman never so

dangerously loves, as when he who loves her, for her sake, subdues

himself.

Clasped to her brother’s breast, Irene bade him thank her deliverer;

and Rienzi, with that fascinating frankness which sits so well on those

usually reserved, and which all who would rule the hearts of their

fellow-men must at times command, advanced to the young Colonna, and

poured forth his gratitude and praise.

“We have been severed too long,--we must know each other again,” replied

Adrian. “I shall seek thee, ere long, be assured.”

Turning to take his leave of Irene, he conveyed her hand to his lips,

and pressing it, as it dropped from his clasp, was he deceived in

thinking that those delicate fingers lightly, involuntarily, returned

the pressure?

Chapter 1.VII. Upon Love and Lovers.

If, in adopting the legendary love tale of Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

had changed the scene in which it is cast for a more northern clime, we

may doubt whether the art of Shakespeare himself could have reconciled

us at once to the suddenness and the strength of Juliet’s passion. And,

even as it is, perhaps there are few of our rational and sober-minded

islanders who would not honestly confess, if fairly questioned, that

they deem the romance and fervour of those ill-starred lovers of Verona

exaggerated and over-drawn. Yet, in Italy, the picture of that affection

born of a night--but “strong as death”--is one to which the veriest

commonplaces of life would afford parallels without number. As in

different ages, so in different climes, love varies wonderfully in the

shapes it takes. And even at this day, beneath Italian skies, many a

simple girl would feel as Juliet, and many a homely gallant would rival

the extravagance of Romeo. Long suits in that sunny land, wherein, as

whereof, I now write, are unknown. In no other land, perhaps, is there

found so commonly the love at first sight, which in France is a jest,

and in England a doubt; in no other land, too, is love, though so

suddenly conceived, more faithfully preserved. That which is ripened

in fancy comes at once to passion, yet is embalmed through all time by

sentiment. And this must be my and their excuse, if the love of

Adrian some too prematurely formed, and that of Irene too romantically

conceived;--it is the excuse which they take from the air and sun, from

the customs of their ancestors, from the soft contagion of example.

But while they yielded to the dictates of their hearts, it was with a

certain though secret sadness--a presentiment that had, perhaps, its

charm, though it was of cross and evil. Born of so proud a race, Adrian

could scarcely dream of marriage with the sister of a plebeian; and

Irene, unconscious of the future glory of her brother, could hardly

have cherished any hope, save that of being loved. Yet these adverse

circumstances, which, in the harder, the more prudent, the more

self-denying, perhaps the more virtuous minds, that are formed beneath

the northern skies, would have been an inducement to wrestle against

love so placed, only contributed to feed and to strengthen theirs by

an opposition which has ever its attraction for romance. They found

frequent, though short, opportunities of meeting--not quite alone, but

only in the conniving presence of Benedetta: sometimes in the public

gardens, sometimes amidst the vast and deserted ruins by which the house

of Rienzi was surrounded. They surrendered themselves, without much

question of the future, to the excitement--the elysium--of the hour:

they lived but from day to day; their future was the next time they

should meet; beyond that epoch, the very mists of their youthful love

closed in obscurity and shadow which they sought not to penetrate: and

as yet they had not arrived at that period of affection when there was

danger of their fall,--their love had not passed the golden portal where

Heaven ceases and Earth begins. Everything for them was the poetry,

the vagueness, the refinement,--not the power, the concentration, the

mortality,--of desire! The look--the whisper--the brief pressure of the

hand, at most, the first kisses of love, rare and few,--these marked the

human limits of that sentiment which filled them with a new life, which

elevated them as with a new soul.

The roving tendencies of Adrian were at once fixed and centered; the

dreams of his tender mistress had awakened to a life dreaming still, but

“rounded with a truth.” All that earnestness, and energy, and fervour of

emotion, which, in her brother, broke forth in the schemes of patriotism

and the aspirations of power, were, in Irene, softened down into one

object of existence, one concentration of soul,--and that was love. Yet,

in this range of thought and action, so apparently limited, there was,

in reality, no less boundless a sphere than in the wide space of her

brother’s many-pathed ambition. Not the less had she the power and

scope for all the loftiest capacities granted to our clay. Equal was her

enthusiasm for her idol; equal, had she been equally tried, would have

been her generosity, her devotion:--greater, be sure, her courage; more

inalienable her worship; more unsullied by selfish purposes and sordid

views. Time, change, misfortune, ingratitude, would have left her the

same! What state could fall, what liberty decay, if the zeal of man’s

noisy patriotism were as pure as the silent loyalty of a woman’s love?

In them everything was young!--the heart unchilled, unblighted,--that

fulness and luxuriance of life’s life which has in it something of

divine. At that age, when it seems as if we could never die, how

deathless, how flushed and mighty as with the youngness of a god, is all

that our hearts create! Our own youth is like that of the earth itself,

when it peopled the woods and waters with divinities; when life

ran riot, and yet only gave birth to beauty;--all its shapes, of

poetry,--all its airs, the melodies of Arcady and Olympus! The Golden

Age never leaves the world: it exists still, and shall exist, till love,

health, poetry, are no more; but only for the young!

If I now dwell, though but for a moment, on this interlude in a drama

calling forth more masculine passions than that of love, it is because

I foresee that the occasion will but rarely recur. If I linger on the

description of Irene and her hidden affection, rather than wait for

circumstances to portray them better than the author’s words can, it is

because I foresee that that loving and lovely image must continue to the

last rather a shadow than a portrait,--thrown in the background, as is

the real destiny of such natures, by bolder figures and more gorgeous

colours; a something whose presence is rather felt than seen, and whose

very harmony with the whole consists in its retiring and subdued repose.

Chapter 1.VIII. The Enthusiastic Man Judged by the Discreet Man.

“Thou wrongest me,” said Rienzi, warmly, to Adrian, as they sat alone,

towards the close of a long conference; “I do not play the part of a

mere demagogue; I wish not to stir the great deeps in order that my

lees of fortune may rise to the surface. So long have I brooded over the

past, that it seems to me as if I had become a part of it--as if I

had no separate existence. I have coined my whole soul into one master

passion,--and its end is the restoration of Rome.”

“But by what means?”

“My Lord! my Lord! there is but one way to restore the greatness of a

people--it is an appeal to the people themselves. It is not in the power

of princes and barons to make a state permanently glorious; they

raise themselves, but they raise not the people with them. All great

regenerations are the universal movement of the mass.”

“Nay,” answered Adrian, “then have we read history differently. To

me, all great regenerations seem to have been the work of the few, and

tacitly accepted by the multitude. But let us not dispute after the

manner of the schools. Thou sayest loudly that a vast crisis is at hand;

that the Good Estate (buono stato) shall be established. How? where are

your arms?--your soldiers? Are the nobles less strong than heretofore?

Is the mob more bold, more constant? Heaven knows that I speak not with

the prejudices of my order--I weep for the debasement of my country! I

am a Roman, and in that name I forget that I am a noble. But I tremble

at the storm you would raise so hazardously. If your insurrection

succeed, it will be violent: it will be purchased by blood--by the blood

of all the loftiest names of Rome. You will aim at a second expulsion of

the Tarquins; but it will be more like a second proscription of Sylla.

Massacres and disorders never pave the way to peace. If, on the other

hand, you fail, the chains of Rome are riveted for ever: an ineffectual

struggle to escape is but an excuse for additional tortures to the

slave.”

“And what, then, would the Lord Adrian have us do?” said Rienzi, with

that peculiar and sarcastic smile which has before been noted. “Shall

we wait till the Colonna and Orsini quarrel no more? shall we ask the

Colonna for liberty, and the Orsini for justice? My Lord, we cannot

appeal to the nobles against the nobles. We must not ask them to

moderate their power; we must restore to ourselves that power. There may

be danger in the attempt--but we attempt it amongst the monuments of the

Forum: and if we fall--we shall perish worthy of our sires! Ye have

high descent, and sounding titles, and wide lands, and you talk of your

ancestral honours! We, too,--we plebeians of Rome,--we have ours! Our

fathers were freemen! where is our heritage? not sold--not given away:

but stolen from us, now by fraud, now by force--filched from us in

our sleep; or wrung from us with fierce hands, amidst our cries and

struggles. My Lord, we but ask that lawful heritage to be restored to

us: to us--nay, to you it is the same; your liberty, alike, is gone. Can

you dwell in your father’s house, without towers, and fortresses, and

the bought swords of bravos? can you walk in the streets at dark without

arms and followers? True, you, a noble, may retaliate; though we dare

not. You, in your turn, may terrify and outrage others; but does licence

compensate for liberty? They have given you pomp and power--but the

safety of equal laws were a better gift. Oh, were I you--were I Stephen

Colonna himself, I should pant, ay, thirstily as I do now, for that

free air which comes not through bars and bulwarks against my

fellow-citizens, but in the open space of Heaven--safe, because

protected by the silent Providence of Law, and not by the lean fears

and hollow-eyed suspicions which are the comrades of a hated power.

The tyrant thinks he is free, because he commands slaves: the meanest

peasant in a free state is more free than he is. Oh, my Lord, that

you--the brave, the generous, the enlightened--you, almost alone amidst

your order, in the knowledge that we had a country--oh, would that you

who can sympathise with our sufferings, would strike with us for their

redress!”

“Thou wilt war against Stephen Colonna, my kinsman; and though I have

seen him but little, nor, truth to say, esteem him much, yet he is the

boast of our house,--how can I join thee?”

“His life will be safe, his possessions safe, his rank safe. What do we

war against? His power to do wrong to others.”

“Should he discover that thou hast force beyond words, he would be less

merciful to thee.”

“And has he not discovered that? Do not the shouts of the people tell

him that I am a man whom he should fear? Does he--the cautious, the

wily, the profound--does he build fortresses, and erect towers, and not

see from his battlements the mighty fabric that I, too, have erected?”

“You! where, Rienzi?”

“In the hearts of Rome! Does he not see?” continued Rienzi. “No, no;

he--all, all his tribe, are blind. Is it not so?”

“Of a certainty, my kinsman has no belief in your power, else he would

have crushed you long ere this. Nay, it was but three days ago that he

said, gravely, he would rather you addressed the populace than the best

priest in Christendom; for that other orators inflamed the crowd, and no

man so stilled and dispersed them as you did.”

“And I called him profound! Does not Heaven hush the air most when

most it prepares the storm? Ay, my Lord, I understand. Stephen Colonna

despises me. I have been”--(here, as he continued, a deep blush mantled

over his cheek)--“you remember it--at his palace in my younger days,

and pleased him with witty tales and light apophthegms. Nay--ha! ha!--he

would call me, I think, sometimes, in gay compliment, his jester--his

buffoon! I have brooked his insult; I have even bowed to his applause.

I would undergo the same penance, stoop to the same shame, for the same

motive, and in the same cause. What did I desire to effect? Can you tell

me? No! I will whisper it, then, to you: it was--the contempt of Stephen

Colonna. Under that contempt I was protected, till protection became

no longer necessary. I desired not to be thought formidable by the

patricians, in order that, quietly and unsuspected, I might make my way

amongst the people. I have done so; I now throw aside the mask. Face

to face with Stephen Colonna, I could tell him, this very hour, that I

brave his anger; that I laugh at his dungeons and armed men. But if he

think me the same Rienzi as of old, let him; I can wait my hour.”

“Yet,” said Adrian, waiving an answer to the haughty language of his

companion, “tell me, what dost thou ask for the people, in order to

avoid an appeal to their passions?--ignorant and capricious as they are,

thou canst not appeal to their reason.”

“I ask full justice and safety for all men. I will be contented with no

less a compromise. I ask the nobles to dismantle their fortresses; to

disband their armed retainers; to acknowledge no impunity for crime in

high lineage; to claim no protection save in the courts of the common

law.”

“Vain desire!” said Adrian. “Ask what may yet be granted.”

“Ha--ha!” replied Rienzi, laughing bitterly, “did I not tell you it was

a vain dream to ask for law and justice at the hands of the great? Can

you blame me, then, that I ask it elsewhere?” Then, suddenly changing

his tone and manner, he added with great solemnity--“Waking life hath

false and vain dreams; but sleep is sometimes a mighty prophet. By sleep

it is that Heaven mysteriously communes with its creatures, and guides

and sustains its earthly agents in the path to which its providence

leads them on.”

Adrian made no reply. This was not the first time he had noted that

Rienzi’s strong intellect was strangely conjoined with a deep and

mystical superstition. And this yet more inclined the young noble, who,

though sufficiently devout, yielded but little to the wilder credulities

of the time, to doubt the success of the schemer’s projects. In this

he erred greatly, though his error was that of the worldly wise. For

nothing ever so inspires human daring, as the fond belief that it is the

agent of a Diviner Wisdom. Revenge and patriotism, united in one man

of genius and ambition--such are the Archimedian levers that find, in

FANATICISM, the spot out of the world by which to move the world. The

prudent man may direct a state; but it is the enthusiast who regenerates

it,--or ruins.

Chapter 1.IX. “When the People Saw this Picture, Every One Marvelled.”

Before the market-place, and at the foot of the Capitol, an immense

crowd was assembled. Each man sought to push before his neighbour; each

struggled to gain access to one particular spot, round which the crowd

was wedged think and dense.

“Corpo di Dio!” said a man of huge stature, pressing onward, like some

bulky ship, casting the noisy waves right and left from its prow, “this

is hot work; but for what, in the holy Mother’s name, do ye crowd so?

See you not, Sir Ribald, that my right arm is disabled, swathed, and

bandaged, so that I cannot help myself better than a baby? And yet you

push against me as if I were an old wall!”

“Ah, Cecco del Vecchio!--what, man! we must make way for you--you are

too small and tender to bustle through a crowd! Come, I will protect

you!” said a dwarf of some four feet high, glancing up at the giant.

“Faith,” said the grim smith, looking round on the mob, who laughed loud

at the dwarf’s proffer, “we all do want protection, big and small. What

do you laugh for, ye apes?--ay, you don’t understand parables.”

“And yet it is a parable we are come to gaze upon,” said one of the mob,

with a slight sneer.

“Pleasant day to you, Signor Baroncelli,” answered Cecco del Vecchio;

“you are a good man, and love the people; it makes one’s heart smile to

see you. What’s all this pother for?”

“Why the Pope’s Notary hath set up a great picture in the marketplace,

and the gapers say it relates to Rome; so they are melting their brains

out, this hot day, to guess at the riddle.”

“Ho! ho!” said the smith, pushing on so vigorously that he left the

speaker suddenly in the rear; “if Cola di Rienzi hath aught in the

matter, I would break through stone rocks to get to it.”

“Much good will a dead daub do us,” said Baroncelli, sourly, and turning

to his neighbours; but no man listened to him, and he, a would-be

demagogue, gnawed his lip in envy.

Amidst half-awed groans and curses from the men whom he jostled aside,

and open objurgations and shrill cries from the women, to whose robes

and headgear he showed as little respect, the sturdy smith won his way

to a space fenced round by chains, in the centre of which was placed a

huge picture.

“How came it hither?” cried one; “I was first at the market.”

“We found it here at daybreak,” said a vender of fruit: “no one was by.”

“But why do you fancy Rienzi had a hand in it?”

“Why, who else could?” answered twenty voices.

“True! Who else?” echoed the gaunt smith. “I dare be sworn the good man

spent the whole night in painting it himself. Blood of St. Peter! but it

is mighty fine! What is it about?”

“That’s the riddle,” said a meditative fish-woman; “if I could make it

out, I should die happy.”

“It is something about liberty and taxes, no doubt,” said Luigi, the

butcher, leaning over the chains. “Ah, if Rienzi were minded, every poor

man would have his bit of meat in his pot.”

“And as much bread as he could eat,” added a pale baker.

“Chut! bread and meat--everybody has that now!--but what wine the

poor folks drink! One has no encouragement to take pains with one’s

vineyard,” said a vine-dresser.

“Ho, hollo!--long life to Pandulfo di Guido! Make way for master

Pandulfo; he is a learned man; he is a friend of the great Notary’s; he

will tell us all about the picture; make way, there--make way!”

Slowly and modestly, Pandulfo di Guido, a quiet, wealthy, and honest man

of letters, whom nought save the violence of the times could have roused

from his tranquil home, or his studious closet, passed to the chains. He

looked long and hard at the picture, which was bright with new, and yet

moist colours, and exhibited somewhat of the reviving art, which,

though hard and harsh in its features, was about that time visible, and,

carried to a far higher degree, we yet gaze upon in the paintings of

Perugino, who flourished during the succeeding generation. The people

pressed round the learned man, with open mouths; now turning their eyes

to the picture, now to Pandulfo.

“Know you not,” at length said Pandulfo, “the easy and palpable meaning

of this design? Behold how the painter has presented to you a vast and

stormy sea--mark how its waves--”

“Speak louder--louder!” shouted the impatient crowd.

“Hush!” cried those in the immediate vicinity of Pandulfo, “the worthy

Signor is perfectly audible!”

Meanwhile, some of the more witty, pushing towards a stall in the

marketplace, bore from it a rough table, from which they besought

Pandulfo to address the people. The pale citizen, with some pain and

shame, for he was no practised spokesman, was obliged to assent; but

when he cast his eyes over the vast and breathless crowd, his own deep

sympathy with their cause inspired and emboldened him. A light broke

from his eyes; his voice swelled into power; and his head, usually

buried in his breast, became erect and commanding in its air.

“You see before you in the picture” (he began again) “a mighty and

tempestuous sea: upon its waves you behold five ships; four of them are

already wrecks,--their masts are broken, the waves are dashing through

the rent planks, they are past all aid and hope: on each of these ships

lies the corpse of a woman. See you not, in the wan face and livid

limbs, how faithfully the limner hath painted the hues and loathsomeness

of death? Below each of these ships is a word that applies the metaphor

to truth. Yonder, you see the name of Carthage; the other three are

Troy, Jerusalem, and Babylon. To these four is one common inscription.

‘To exhaustion were we brought by injustice!’ Turn now your eyes to the

middle of the sea,--there you behold the fifth ship, tossed amidst the

waves, her mast broken, her rudder gone, her sails shivered, but not

yet a wreck like the rest, though she soon may be. On her deck kneels

a female, clothed in mourning; mark the wo upon her countenance,--how

cunningly the artist has conveyed its depth and desolation; she

stretches out her arms in prayer, she implores your and Heaven’s

assistance. Mark now the superscription--‘This is Rome!’--Yes, it is

your country that addresses you in this emblem!”

The crowd waved to and fro, and a deep murmur crept gathering over the

silence which they had hitherto kept.

“Now,” continued Pandulfo, “turn your gaze to the right of the picture,

and you will behold the cause of the tempest,--you will see why the

fifth vessel is thus perilled, and her sisters are thus wrecked. Mark,

four different kinds of animals, who, from their horrid jaws, send forth

the winds and storms which torture and rack the sea. The first are the

lions, the wolves, the bears. These, the inscription tells you, are

the lawless and savage signors of the state. The next are the dogs

and swine,--these are the evil counsellors and parasites. Thirdly,

you behold the dragons and the foxes,--and these are false judges and

notaries, and they who sell justice. Fourthly, in the hares, the goats,

the apes, that assist in creating the storm, you perceive, by the

inscription, the emblems of the popular thieves and homicides, ravishers

and spoliators. Are ye bewildered still, O Romans! or have ye mastered

the riddle of the picture?”

Far in their massive palaces the Savelli and Orsini heard the echo of

the shouts that answered the question of Pandulfo.

“Are ye, then, without hope!” resumed the scholar, as the shout ceased,

and hushing, with the first sound of his voice, the ejaculations and

speeches which each man had turned to utter to his neighbour. “Are ye

without hope? Doth the picture, which shows your tribulation, promise

you no redemption? Behold, above that angry sea, the heavens open, and

the majesty of God descends gloriously, as to judgment: and, from the

rays that surround the Spirit of God extend two flaming swords, and

on those swords stand, in wrath, but in deliverance, the two patron

saints--the two mighty guardians of your city! People of Rome, farewell!

The parable is finished.” (M. Sismondi attributes to Rienzi a fine

oration at the showing of the picture, in which he thundered against

the vices of the patricians. The contemporary biographer of Rienzi

says nothing of this harangue. But, apparently (since history has its

liberties as well as fiction), M. Sismondi has thought it convenient to

confound two occasions very distinct in themselves.)

Chapter 1.X. A Rough Spirit Raised, Which May Hereafter Rend the Wizard.

While thus animated was the scene around the Capitol, within one of

the apartments of the palace sat the agent and prime cause of that

excitement. In the company of his quiet scribes, Rienzi appeared

absorbed in the patient details of his avocation. While the murmur and

the hum, the shout and the tramp, of multitudes, rolled to his chamber,

he seemed not to heed them, nor to rouse himself a moment from his task.

With the unbroken regularity of an automaton, he continued to enter

in his large book, and with the clear and beautiful characters of

the period, those damning figures which taught him, better than

declamations, the frauds practised on the people, and armed him with

that weapon of plain fact which it is so difficult for abuse to parry.

“Page 2, Vol. B.,” said he, in the tranquil voice of business, to the

clerks; “see there, the profits of the salt duty; department No.3--very

well. Page 9, Vol. D.--what is the account rendered by Vescobaldi, the

collector? What! twelve thousand florins?--no more?--unconscionable

rascal!” (Here was a loud shout without of ‘Pandulfo!--long live

Pandulfo!’) “Pastrucci, my friend, your head wanders; you are listening

to the noise without--please to amuse yourself with the calculation I

entrusted to you. Santi, what is the entry given in by Antonio Tralli?”

A slight tap was heard at the door, and Pandulfo entered.

The clerks continued their labour, though they looked up hastily at the

pale and respectable visitor, whose name, to their great astonishment,

had thus become a popular cry.

“Ah, my friend,” said Rienzi, calmly enough in voice, but his hands

trembled with ill-suppressed emotion, “you would speak to me alone,

eh? well, well--this way.” Thus saying, he led the citizen into a small

cabinet in the rear of the room of office, carefully shut the door,

and then giving himself up to the natural impatience of his character,

seized Pandulfo by the hand: “Speak!” cried he: “do they take the

interpretation?--have you made it plain and palpable enough?--has it

sunk deep into their souls?”

“Oh, by St. Peter! yes!” returned the citizen, whose spirits were

elevated by his recent discovery that he, too, was an orator--a

luxurious pleasure for a timid man. “They swallowed every word of the

interpretation; they are moved to the marrow--you might lead them this

very hour to battle, and find them heroes. As for the sturdy smith--”

“What! Cecco del Vecchio?” interrupted Rienzi; “ah, his heart is wrought

in bronze--what did he?”

“Why, he caught me by the hem of my robe as I descended my rostrum, (oh!

would you could have seen me!--per fede I had caught your mantle!--I was

a second you!) and said, weeping like a child, ‘Ah, Signor, I am but a

poor man, and of little worth; but if every drop of blood in this body

were a life, I would give it for my country!’”

“Brave soul,” said Rienzi, with emotion; “would Rome had but fifty

such! No man hath done us more good among his own class than Cecco del

Vecchio.”

“They feel a protection in his very size,” said Pandulfo. “It is

something to hear such big words from such a big fellow.”

“Were there any voices lifted in disapprobation of the picture and its

sentiment?”

“None.”

“The time is nearly ripe, then--a few suns more, and the fruit must be

gathered. The Aventine,--the Lateran,--and then the solitary trumpet!”

Thus saying, Rienzi, with folded arms and downcast eyes, seemed sunk

into a reverie.

“By the way,” said Pandulfo, “I had almost forgot to tell thee, that the

crowd would have poured themselves hither, so impatient were they to see

thee; but I bade Cecco del Vecchio mount the rostrum, and tell them, in

his blunt way, that it would be unseemly at the present time, when thou

wert engaged in the Capitol on civil and holy affairs, to rush in so

great a body into thy presence. Did I not right?”

“Most right, my Pandulfo.”

“But Cecco del Vecchio says he must come and kiss thy hand: and thou

mayst expect him here the moment he can escape unobserved from the

crowd.”

“He is welcome!” said Rienzi, half mechanically, for he was still

absorbed in thought.

“And, lo! here he is,”--as one of the scribes announced the visit of the

smith.

“Let him be admitted!” said Rienzi, seating himself composedly.

When the huge smith found himself in the presence of Rienzi, it amused

Pandulfo to perceive the wonderful influences of mind over matter. That

fierce and sturdy giant, who, in all popular commotions, towered above

his tribe, with thews of stone, and nerves of iron, the rallying point

and bulwark of the rest,--stood now colouring and trembling before the

intellect, which (so had the eloquent spirit of Rienzi waked and fanned

the spark which, till then, had lain dormant in that rough bosom)

might almost be said to have created his own. And he, indeed, who first

arouses in the bondsman the sense and soul of freedom, comes as near as

is permitted to man, nearer than the philosopher, nearer even than the

poet, to the great creative attribute of God!--But, if the breast be

uneducated, the gift may curse the giver; and he who passes at once from

the slave to the freeman may pass as rapidly from the freeman to the

ruffian.

“Approach, my friend,” said Rienzi, after a moment’s pause; “I know all

that thou hast done, and wouldst do, for Rome! Thou art worthy of her

best days, and thou art born to share in their return.”

The smith dropped at the feet of Rienzi, who held out his hand to raise

him, which Cecco del Vecchio seized, and reverentially kissed.

“This kiss does not betray,” said Rienzi, smiling; “but rise, my

friend,--this posture is only due to God and his saints!”

“He is a saint who helps us at need!” said the smith, bluntly, “and that

no man has done as thou hast. But when,” he added, sinking his voice,

and fixing his eyes hard on Rienzi, as one may do who waits a signal to

strike a blow, “when--when shall we make the great effort?”

“Thou hast spoken to all the brave men in thy neighbourhood,--are they

well prepared?”

“To live or die, as Rienzi bids them!”

“I must have the list--the number--names--houses and callings, this

night.”

“Thou shalt.”

“Each man must sign his name or mark with his own hand.”

“It shall be done.”

“Then, harkye! attend Pandulfo di Guido at his house this evening,

at sunset. He shall instruct thee where to meet this night some brave

hearts;--thou art worthy to be ranked amongst them. Thou wilt not fail!”

“By the holy Stairs! I will count every minute till then,” said the

smith, his swarthy face lighted with pride at the confidence shown him.

“Meanwhile, watch all your neighbours; let no man flag or grow

faint-hearted,--none of thy friends must be branded as a traitor!”

“I will cut his throat, were he my own mother’s son, if I find one

pledged man flinch!” said the fierce smith.

“Ha, ha!” rejoined Rienzi, with that strange laugh which belonged to

him; “a miracle! a miracle! The Picture speaks now!”

It was already nearly dusk when Rienzi left the Capitol. The broad space

before its walls was empty and deserted, and wrapping his mantle closely

round him, he walked musingly on.

“I have almost climbed the height,” thought he, “and now the precipice

yawns before me. If I fail, what a fall! The last hope of my country

falls with me. Never will a noble rise against the nobles. Never will

another plebeian have the opportunities and the power that I have! Rome

is bound up with me--with a single life. The liberties of all time are

fixed to a reed that a wind may uproot. But oh, Providence! hast thou

not reserved and marked me for great deeds? How, step by step, have I

been led on to this solemn enterprise! How has each hour prepared its

successor! And yet what danger! If the inconstant people, made cowardly

by long thraldom, do but waver in the crisis, I am swept away!”

As he spoke, he raised his eyes, and lo, before him, the first star of

twilight shone calmly down upon the crumbling remnants of the Tarpeian

Rock. It was no favouring omen, and Rienzi’s heart beat quicker as that

dark and ruined mass frowned thus suddenly on his gaze.

“Dread monument,” thought he, “of what dark catastrophes, to what

unknown schemes, hast thou been the witness! To how many enterprises, on

which history is dumb, hast thou set the seal! How know we whether they

were criminal or just? How know we whether he, thus doomed as a traitor,

would not, if successful, have been immortalized as a deliverer? If I

fall, who will write my chronicle? One of the people? alas! blinded and

ignorant, they furnish forth no minds that can appeal to posterity. One

of the patricians? in what colours then shall I be painted! No tomb will

rise for me amidst the wrecks; no hand scatter flowers upon my grave!”

Thus meditating on the verge of that mighty enterprise to which he had

devoted himself, Rienzi pursued his way. He gained the Tiber, and paused

for a few moments beside its legendary stream, over which the purple and

starlit heaven shone deeply down. He crossed the bridge which leads

to the quarter of the Trastevere, whose haughty inhabitants yet boast

themselves the sole true descendants of the ancient Romans. Here he step

grew quicker and more light; brighter, if less solemn, thoughts crowded

upon his breast; and ambition, lulled for a moment, left his strained

and over-laboured mind to the reign of a softer passion.

Chapter 1.XI. Nina di Raselli.

“I tell you, Lucia, I do not love those stuffs; they do not become me.

Saw you ever so poor a dye?--this purple, indeed! that crimson! Why did

you let the man leave them? Let him take them elsewhere tomorrow.

They may suit the signoras on the other side the Tiber, who imagine

everything Venetian must be perfect; but I, Lucia, I see with my own

eyes, and judge from my own mind.”

“Ah, dear lady,” said the serving-maid, “if you were, as you doubtless

will be, some time or other, a grand signora, how worthily you would

wear the honours! Santa Cecilia! No other dame in Rome would be looked

at while the Lady Nina were by!”

“Would we not teach them what pomp was?” answered Nina. “Oh! what

festivals would we hold! Saw you not from the gallery the revels given

last week by the Lady Giulia Savelli?”

“Ay, signora; and when you walked up the hall in your silver and pearl

tissue, there ran such a murmur through the gallery; every one cried,

‘The Savelli have entertained an angel!’”

“Pish! Lucia; no flattery, girl.”

“It is naked truth, lady. But that was a revel, was it not? There was

grandeur!--fifty servitors in scarlet and gold! and the music playing

all the while. The minstrels were sent for from Bergamo. Did not that

festival please you? Ah, I warrant many were the fine speeches made to

you that day!”

“Heigho!--no, there was one voice wanting, and all the music was marred.

But, girl, were I the Lady Giulia, I would not have been contented with

so poor a revel.”

“How, poor! Why all the nobles say it outdid the proudest marriage-feast

of the Colonna. Nay, a Neapolitan who sat next me, and who had served

under the young Queen Joanna, at her marriage, says, that even Naples

was outshone.”

“That may be. I know nought of Naples; but I know what my court should

have been, were I what--what I am not, and may never be! The banquet

vessels should have been of gold; the cups jewelled to the brim; not

an inch of the rude pavement should have been visible; all should

have glowed with cloth of gold. The fountain in the court should have

showered up the perfumes of the East; my pages should not have been

rough youths, blushing at their own uncouthness, but fair boys, who had

not told their twelfth year, culled from the daintiest palaces of Rome;

and, as for the music, oh, Lucia!--each musician should have worn a

chaplet, and deserved it; and he who played best should have had a

reward, to inspire all the rest--a rose from me. Saw you, too, the

Lady Giulia’s robe? What colours! they might have put out the sun

at noonday!--yellow, and blue, and orange, and scarlet! Oh, sweet

Saints!--but my eyes ached all the next day!”

“Doubtless, the Lady Giulia lacks your skill in the mixture of colours,”

said the complaisant waiting-woman.

“And then, too, what a mien!--no royalty in it! She moved along the

hall, so that her train well nigh tripped her every moment; and then

she said, with a foolish laugh, ‘These holyday robes are but troublesome

luxuries.’ Troth, for the great there should be no holyday robes; ‘tis

for myself, not for others, that I would attire! Every day should

have its new robe, more gorgeous than the last;--every day should be a

holyday!”

“Methought,” said Lucia, “that the Lord Giovanni Orsini seemed very

devoted to my Lady.”

“He! the bear!”

“Bear, he may be! but he has a costly skin. His riches are untold.”

“And the fool knows not how to spend them.”

“Was not that the young Lord Adrian who spoke to you just by the

columns, where the music played?”

“It might be,--I forget.”

“Yet, I hear that few ladies forget when Lord Adrian di Castello woos

them.”

“There was but one man whose company seemed to me worth the

recollection,” answered Nina, unheeding the insinuation of the artful

handmaid.

“And who was he?” asked Lucia.

“The old scholar from Avignon!”

“What! he with the gray beard? Oh, Signora!”

“Yes,” said Nina, with a grave and sad voice; “when he spoke, the whole

scene vanished from my eyes,--for he spoke to me of HIM!”

As she said this, the Signora sighed deeply, and the tears gathered to

her eyes.

The waiting-woman raised her lips in disdain, and her looks in wonder;

but she did not dare to venture a reply.

“Open the lattice,” said Nina, after a pause, “and give me yon paper.

Not that, girl--but the verses sent me yesterday. What! art thou

Italian, and dost thou not know, by instinct, that I spoke of the rhyme

of Petrarch?”

Seated by the open casement, through which the moonlight stole soft

and sheen, with one lamp beside her, from which she seemed to shade her

eyes, though in reality she sought to hide her countenance from Lucia,

the young Signora appeared absorbed in one of those tender sonnets which

then turned the brains and inflamed the hearts of Italy. (Although it is

true that the love sonnets of Petrarch were not then, as now, the most

esteemed of his works, yet it has been a great, though a common error,

to represent them as little known and coldly admired. Their effect was,

in reality, prodigious and universal. Every ballad-singer sung them

in the streets, and (says Filippo Villani), “Gravissimi nesciebant

abstinere”--“Even the gravest could not abstain from them.”)

Born of an impoverished house, which, though boasting its descent from

a consular race of Rome, scarcely at that day maintained a rank

amongst the inferior order of nobility, Nina di Raselli was the spoiled

child--the idol and the tyrant--of her parents. The energetic and

self-willed character of her mind made her rule where she should have

obeyed; and as in all ages dispositions can conquer custom, she had,

though in a clime and land where the young and unmarried of her sex

are usually chained and fettered, assumed, and by assuming won, the

prerogative of independence. She possessed, it is true, more learning

and more genius than generally fell to the share of women in that day;

and enough of both to be deemed a miracle by her parents;--she had,

also, what they valued more, a surpassing beauty; and, what they feared

more, an indomitable haughtiness;--a haughtiness mixed with a thousand

soft and endearing qualities where she loved; and which, indeed, where

she loved, seemed to vanish. At once vain yet high-minded, resolute yet

impassioned, there was a gorgeous magnificence in her very vanity and

splendour,--an ideality in her waywardness: her defects made a part

of her brilliancy; without them she would have seemed less woman; and,

knowing her, you would have compared all women by her standard. Softer

qualities beside her seemed not more charming, but more insipid. She had

no vulgar ambition, for she had obstinately refused many alliances which

the daughter of Raselli could scarcely have hoped to form. The untutored

minds and savage power of the Roman nobles seemed to her imagination,

which was full of the poetry of rank, its luxury and its graces, as

something barbarous and revolting, at once to be dreaded and despised.

She had, therefore, passed her twentieth year unmarried, but not without

love. The faults, themselves, of her character, elevated that ideal of

love which she had formed. She required some being round whom all her

vainer qualities could rally; she felt that where she loved she must

adore; she demanded no common idol before which to humble so strong and

imperious a mind. Unlike women of a gentler mould, who desire, for a

short period, to exercise the caprices of sweet empire,--when she loved

she must cease to command; and pride, at once, be humbled to devotion.

So rare were the qualities that could attract her; so imperiously did

her haughtiness require that those qualities should be above her own,

yet of the same order; that her love elevated its object like a god.

Accustomed to despise, she felt all the luxury it is to venerate! And

if it were her lot to be united with one thus loved, her nature was

that which might become elevated by the nature that it gazed on. For

her beauty--Reader, shouldst thou ever go to Rome, thou wilt see in the

Capitol the picture of the Cumaean Sibyl, which, often copied, no copy

can even faintly represent. I beseech thee, mistake not this sibyl for

another, for the Roman galleries abound in sibyls. (The sibyl referred

to is the well-known one by Domenichino. As a mere work of art, that by

Guercino, called the Persian sibyl, in the same collection, is perhaps

superior; but in beauty, in character, there is no comparison.) The

sibyl I speak of is dark, and the face has an Eastern cast; the robe

and turban, gorgeous though they be, grow dim before the rich, but

transparent roses of the cheek; the hair would be black, save for that

golden glow which mellows it to a hue and lustre never seen but in the

south, and even in the south most rare; the features, not Grecian, are

yet faultless; the mouth, the brow, the ripe and exquisite contour, all

are human and voluptuous; the expression, the aspect, is something more;

the form is, perhaps, too full for the perfection of loveliness, for the

proportions of sculpture, for the delicacy of Athenian models; but the

luxuriant fault has a majesty. Gaze long upon that picture: it charms,

yet commands, the eye. While you gaze, you call back five centuries. You

see before you the breathing image of Nina di Raselli!

But it was not those ingenious and elaborate conceits in which Petrarch,

great Poet though he be, has so often mistaken pedantry for passion,

that absorbed at that moment the attention of the beautiful Nina. Her

eyes rested not on the page, but on the garden that stretched below the

casement. Over the old fruit-trees and hanging vines fell the moonshine;

and in the centre of the green, but half-neglected sward, the waters of

a small and circular fountain, whose perfect proportions spoke of days

long past, played and sparkled in the starlight. The scene was still

and beautiful; but neither of its stillness nor its beauty thought Nina:

towards one, the gloomiest and most rugged, spot in the whole garden,

turned her gaze; there, the trees stood densely massed together, and

shut from view the low but heavy wall which encircled the mansion of

Raselli. The boughs on those trees stirred gently, but Nina saw them

wave; and now from the copse emerged, slowly and cautiously, a solitary

figure, whose shadow threw itself, long and dark, over the sward. It

approached the window, and a low voice breathed Nina’s name.

“Quick, Lucia!” cried she, breathlessly, turning to her handmaid:

“quick! the rope-ladder! it is he! he is come! How slow you are! haste,

girl,--he may be discovered! There,--O joy,--O joy!--My lover! my hero!

my Rienzi!”

“It is you!” said Rienzi, as, now entering the chamber, he wound his

arms around her half-averted form, “and what is night to others is day

to me!”

The first sweet moments of welcome were over; and Rienzi was seated at

the feet of his mistress: his head rested on her knees--his face looking

up to hers--their hands clasped each in each.

“And for me thou bravest these dangers!” said the lover; “the shame of

discovery, the wrath of thy parents!”

“But what are my perils to thine? Oh, Heaven! if my father found thee

here thou wouldst die!”

“He would think it then so great a humiliation, that thou, beautiful

Nina, who mightst match with the haughtiest names of Rome, shouldst

waste thy love on a plebeian--even though the grandson of an emperor!”

The proud heart of Nina could sympathize well with the wounded pride of

her lover: she detected the soreness which lurked beneath his answer,

carelessly as it was uttered.

“Hast thou not told me,” she said, “of that great Marius, who was no

noble, but from whom the loftiest Colonna would rejoice to claim his

descent? and do I not know in thee one who shall yet eclipse the power

of Marius, unsullied by his vices?”

“Delicious flattery! sweet prophet!” said Rienzi, with a melancholy

smile; “never were thy supporting promises of the future more welcome to

me than now; for to thee I will say what I would utter to none else--my

soul half sinks beneath the mighty burthen I have heaped upon it. I want

new courage as the dread hour approaches; and from thy words and looks I

drink it.”

“Oh!” answered Nina, blushing as she spoke, “glorious is indeed the lot

which I have bought by my love for thee: glorious to share thy schemes,

to cheer thee in doubt, to whisper hope to thee in danger.”

“And give grace to me in triumph!” added Rienzi, passionately. “Ah!

should the future ever place upon these brows the laurel-wreath due to

one who has saved his country, what joy, what recompence, to lay it

at thy feet! Perhaps, in those long and solitary hours of languor and

exhaustion which fill up the interstices of time,--the dull space for

sober thought between the epochs of exciting action,--perhaps I should

have failed and flagged, and renounced even my dreams for Rome, had they

not been linked also with my dreams for thee!--had I not pictured to

myself the hour when my fate should elevate me beyond my birth; when thy

sire would deem it no disgrace to give thee to my arms; when thou,

too, shouldst stand amidst the dames of Rome, more honoured, as more

beautiful, than all; and when I should see that pomp, which my own soul

disdains, [‘Quem semper abhorrui sicut cenum’ is the expression used by

Rienzi, in his letter to his friend at Avignon, and which was probably

sincere. Men rarely act according to the bias of their own tastes.) made

dear and grateful to me because associated with thee! Yes, it is these

thoughts that have inspired me, when sterner ones have shrunk back

appalled from the spectres that surround their goal. And oh! my Nina,

sacred, strong, enduring must be, indeed, the love which lives in the

same pure and elevated air as that which sustains my hopes of liberty

and fame!”

This was the language which, more even than the vows of fidelity and the

dear adulation which springs from the heart’s exuberance, had bound the

proud and vain soul of Nina to the chains that it so willingly wore.

Perhaps, indeed, in the absence of Rienzi, her weaker nature pictured to

herself the triumph of humbling the highborn signoras, and eclipsing the

barbarous magnificence of the chiefs of Rome; but in his presence,

and listening to his more elevated and generous ambition, as yet all

unsullied by one private feeling save the hope of her, her higher

sympathies were enlisted with his schemes, her mind aspired to raise

itself to the height of his, and she thought less of her own rise than

of his glory. It was sweet to her pride to be the sole confidante of his

most secret thoughts, as of his most hardy undertakings; to see bared

before her that intricate and plotting spirit; to be admitted even to

the knowledge of its doubts and weakness, as of its heroism and power.

Nothing could be more contrasted than the loves of Rienzi and Nina,

and those of Adrian and Irene: in the latter, all were the dreams, the

phantasies, the extravagance, of youth; they never talked of the future;

they mingled no other aspirations with those of love. Ambition, glory,

the world’s high objects, were nothing to them when together; their love

had swallowed up the world, and left nothing visible beneath the sun,

save itself. But the passion of Nina and her lover was that of more

complicated natures and more mature years: it was made up of a thousand

feelings, each naturally severed from each, but compelled into one focus

by the mighty concentration of love; their talk was of the world; it was

from the world that they drew the aliment which sustained it; it was of

the future they spoke and thought; of its dreams and imagined glories

they made themselves a home and altar; their love had in it more of the

Intellectual than that of Adrian and Irene; it was more fitted for this

hard earth; it had in it, also, more of the leaven of the later and iron

days, and less of poetry and the first golden age.

“And must thou leave me now?” said Nina, her cheek no more averted from

his lips, nor her form from his parting embrace. “The moon is high yet;

it is but a little hour thou hast given me.”

“An hour! Alas!” said Rienzi, “it is near upon midnight--our friends

await me.”

“Go, then, my soul’s best half! Go; Nina shall not detain thee one

moment from those higher objects which make thee so dear to Nina.

When--when shall we meet again!”

“Not,” said Rienzi, proudly, and with all his soul upon his brow, “not

thus, by stealth! no! nor as I thus have met thee, the obscure and

contemned bondsman! When next thou seest me, it shall be at the head of

the sons of Rome! her champion! her restorer! or--” said he, sinking his

voice--

“There is no or!” interrupted Nina, weaving her arms round him, and

catching his enthusiasm; “thou hast uttered thine own destiny!”

“One kiss more!--farewell!--the tenth day from the morrow shines upon

the restoration of Rome!”

Chapter 1.XII. The Strange Adventures that Befel Walter de Montreal.

It was upon that same evening, and while the earlier stars yet shone

over the city, that Walter de Montreal, returning, alone, to the convent

then associated with the church of Santa Maria del Priorata (both of

which belonged to the Knights of the Hospital, and in the first of which

Montreal had taken his lodgment), paused amidst the ruins and desolation

which lay around his path. Thou little skilled in the classic memories

and associations of the spot, he could not but be impressed with the

surrounding witnesses of departed empire; the vast skeleton, as it were,

of the dead giantess.

“Now,” thought he, as he gazed around upon the roofless columns and

shattered walls, everywhere visible, over which the starlight shone,

ghastly and transparent, backed by the frowning and embattled fortresses

of the Frangipani, half hid by the dark foliage that sprung up amidst

the very fanes and palaces of old--Nature exulting over the frailer

Art; “now,” thought he, “bookmen would be inspired, by this scene, with

fantastic and dreaming visions of the past. But to me these monuments of

high ambition and royal splendour create only images of the future. Rome

may yet be, with her seven-hilled diadem, as Rome has been before, the

prize of the strongest hand and the boldest warrior,--revived, not by

her own degenerate sons, but the infused blood of a new race. William

the Bastard could scarce have found the hardy Englishers so easy a

conquest as Walter the Well-born may find these eunuch Romans. And which

conquest were the more glorious,--the barbarous Isle, or the Metropolis

of the World? Short step from the general to the podesta--shorter step

from the podesta to the king!”

While thus revolving his wild, yet not altogether chimerical ambition,

a quick light step was heard amidst the long herbage, and, looking up,

Montreal perceived the figure of a tall female descending from that

part of the hill then covered by many convents, towards the base of the

Aventine. She supported her steps with a long staff, and moved with such

elasticity and erectness, that now, as her face became visible by the

starlight, it was surprising to perceive that it was the face of one

advanced in years,--a harsh, proud countenance, withered, and deeply

wrinkled, but not without a certain regularity of outline.

“Merciful Virgin!” cried Montreal, starting back as that face gleamed

upon him: “is it possible? It is she:--it is--”

He sprung forward, and stood right before the old woman, who seemed

equally surprised, though more dismayed, at the sight of Montreal.

“I have sought thee for years,” said the Knight, first breaking the

silence; “years, long years,--thy conscience can tell thee why.”

“Mine, man of blood!” cried the female, trembling with rage or fear;

“darest thou talk of conscience? Thou, the dishonourer--the robber--the

professed homicide! Thou, disgrace to knighthood and to birth! Thou,

with the cross of chastity and of peace upon thy breast! Thou talk of

conscience, hypocrite!--thou?”

“Lady--lady!” said Montreal, deprecatingly, and almost quailing beneath

the fiery passion of that feeble woman, “I have sinned against thee and

thine. But remember all my excuses!--early love--fatal obstacles--rash

vow--irresistible temptation! Perhaps,” he added, in a more haughty

tone, “perhaps, yet, I may have the power to atone my error, and wring,

with mailed hand, from the successor of St Peter, who hath power to

loose as to bind--”

“Perjured and abandoned!” interrupted the female; “dost thou dream that

violence can purchase absolution, or that thou canst ever atone the

past?--a noble name disgraced, a father’s broken heart and dying curse!

Yes, that curse, I hear it now! it rings upon me thrillingly, as when I

watched the expiring clay! it cleaves to thee--it pursues thee--it shall

pierce thee through thy corselet--it shall smite thee in the meridian of

thy power! Genius wasted--ambition blasted--penitence deferred--a life

of brawls, and a death of shame--thy destruction the offspring of thy

crime!--To this, to this, an old man’s curse hath doomed thee!--AND THOU

ART DOOMED!”

These words were rather shrieked than spoken: and the flashing eye, the

lifted hand, the dilated form of the speaker--the hour--the solitude of

the ruins around--all conspired to give to the fearful execration the

character of prophecy. The warrior, against whose undaunted breast a

hundred spears had shivered in vain, fell appalled and humbled to the

ground. He seized the hem of his fierce denouncer’s robe, and cried, in

a choked and hollow voice, “Spare me! spare me!”

“Spare thee!” said the unrelenting crone; “hast thou ever spared

man in thy hatred, or woman in thy lust? Ah, grovel in the

dust!--crouch--crouch!--wild beast as thou art! whose sleek skin and

beautiful hues have taught the unwary to be blind to the talons that

rend, and the grinders that devour;--crouch, that the foot of the old

and impotent may spurn thee!”

“Hag!” cried Montreal, in the reaction of sudden fury and maddened

pride, springing up to the full height of his stature. “Hag! thou hast

passed the limits to which, remembering who thou art, my forbearance

gave thee licence. I had well-nigh forgot that thou hadst assumed my

part--I am the Accuser! Woman!--the boy!--shrink not! equivocate not!

lie not!--thou wert the thief!”

“I was. Thou taughtest me the lesson how to steal a--”

“Render--restore him!” interrupted Montreal, stamping on the ground with

such force that the splinters of the marble fragments on which he stood

shivered under his armed heel.

The woman little heeded a violence at which the fiercest warrior of

Italy might have trembled; but she did not make an immediate answer. The

character of her countenance altered from passion into an expression

of grave, intent, and melancholy thought. At length she replied to

Montreal; whose hand had wandered to his dagger-hilt, with the instinct

of long habit, whenever enraged or thwarted, rather than from any design

of blood; which, stern and vindictive as he was, he would have been

incapable of forming against any woman,--much less against the one then

before him.

“Walter de Montreal,” said she, in a voice so calm that it almost

sounded like that of compassion, “the boy, I think, has never known

brother or sister: the only child of a once haughty and lordly race, on

both sides, though now on both dishonoured--nay, why so impatient? thou

wilt soon learn the worst--the boy is dead!”

“Dead!” repeated Montreal, recoiling and growing pale; “dead!--no,

no--say not that! He has a mother,--you know he has!--a fond,

meekhearted, anxious, hoping mother!--no!--no, he is not dead!”

“Thou canst feel, then, for a mother?” said the old woman, seemingly

touched by the tone of the Provencal. “Yet, bethink thee; is it not

better that the grave should save him from a life of riot, of bloodshed,

and of crime? Better to sleep with God than to wake with the fiends!”

“Dead!” echoed Montreal; “dead!--the pretty one!--so young!--those

eyes--the mother’s eyes--closed so soon?”

“Hast thou aught else to say? Thy sight scares my very womanhood from my

soul!--let me be gone.”

“Dead!--may I believe thee? or dost thou mock me? Thou hast uttered thy

curse, hearken to my warning:--If thou hast lied in this, thy last hour

shall dismay thee, and thy death-bed shall be the death-bed of despair!”

“Thy lips,” replied the female, with a scornful smile, “are better

adapted for lewd vows to unhappy maidens, than for the denunciations

which sound solemn only when coming from the good. Farewell!”

“Stay! inexorable woman! stay!--where sleeps he? Masses shall be sung!

priests shall pray!--the sins of the father shall not be visited on that

young head!”

“At Florence!” returned the woman, hastily. “But no stone records the

departed one!--The dead boy had no name!”

Waiting for no further questionings, the woman now passed on,--pursued

her way;--and the long herbage, and the winding descent, soon snatched

her ill-omened apparition from the desolate landscape.

Montreal, thus alone, sunk with a deep and heavy sigh upon the ground,

covered his face with his hands, and burst into an agony of grief; his

chest heaved, his whole frame trembled, and he wept and sobbed aloud,

with all the fearful vehemence of a man whose passions are strong and

fierce, but to whom the violence of grief alone is novel and unfamiliar.

He remained thus, prostrate and unmanned, for a considerable time,

growing slowly and gradually more calm as tears relieved his emotion;

and, at length, rather indulging a gloomy reverie than a passionate

grief. The moon was high and the hour late when he arose, and then few

traces of the past excitement remained upon his countenance; for Walter

de Montreal was not of that mould in which woe can force a settlement,

or to which any affliction can bring the continued and habitual

melancholy that darkens those who feel more enduringly, though with

emotions less stormy. His were the elements of the true Franc character,

though carried to excess: his sternest and his deepest qualities

were mingled with fickleness and caprice; his profound sagacity often

frustrated by a whim; his towering ambition deserted for some frivolous

temptation; and his elastic, sanguine, and high-spirited nature,

faithful only to the desire of military glory, to the poetry of a daring

and stormy life, and to the susceptibilities of that tender passion

without whose colourings no portrait of chivalry is complete, and in

which he was capable of a sentiment, a tenderness, and a loyal devotion,

which could hardly have been supposed compatible with his reckless

levity and his undisciplined career.

“Well,” said he, as he rose slowly, folded his mantle round him, and

resumed his way, “it was not for myself I grieved thus. But the pang is

past, and the worst is known. Now, then, back to those things that never

die--restless projects and daring schemes. That hag’s curse keeps my

blood cold still, and this solitude has something in it weird and awful.

Ha!--what sudden light is that?”

The light which caught Montreal’s eye broke forth almost like a star,

scarcely larger, indeed, but more red and intense in its ray. Of itself

it was nothing uncommon, and might have shone either from convent or

cottage. But it streamed from a part of the Aventine which contained

no habitations of the living, but only the empty ruins and shattered

porticoes, of which even the names and memories of the ancient

inhabitants were dead. Aware of this, Montreal felt a slight awe (as the

beam threw its steady light over the dreary landscape); for he was

not without the knightly superstitions of the age, and it was now the

witching hour consecrated to ghost and spirit. But fear, whether of

this world or the next, could not long daunt the mind of the hardy

freebooter; and, after a short hesitation, he resolved to make a

digression from his way, and ascertain the cause of the phenomenon.

Unconsciously, the martial tread of the barbarian passed over the site

of the famed, or infamous, Temple of Isis, which had once witnessed

those wildest orgies commemorated by Juvenal; and came at last to a

thick and dark copse, from an opening in the centre of which gleamed the

mysterious light. Penetrating the gloomy foliage, the Knight now found

himself before a large ruin, grey and roofless, from within which came,

indistinct and muffled, the sound of voices. Through a rent in the wall,

forming a kind of casement, and about ten feet from the ground, the

light now broke over the matted and rank soil, embedded, as it were, in

vast masses of shade, and streaming through a mouldering portico hard at

hand. The Provencal stood, though he knew it not, on the very place once

consecrated by the Temple: the Portico and the Library of Liberty (the

first public library instituted in Rome). The wall of the ruin was

covered with innumerable creepers and wild brushwood, and it required

but little agility on the part of Montreal, by the help of these, to

raise himself to the height of the aperture, and, concealed by the

luxuriant foliage, to gaze within. He saw a table, lighted with tapers,

in the centre of which was a crucifix; a dagger, unsheathed; an open

scroll, which the event proved to be of sacred character; and a brazen

bowl. About a hundred men, in cloaks, and with black vizards, stood

motionless around; and one, taller than the rest, without disguise or

mask--whose pale brow and stern features seemed by that light yet

paler and yet more stern--appeared to be concluding some address to his

companions.

“Yes,” said he, “in the church of the Lateran I will make the last

appeal to the people. Supported by the Vicar of the Pope, myself an

officer of the Pontiff, it will be seen that Religion and Liberty--the

heroes and the martyrs--are united in one cause. After that time, words

are idle; action must begin. By this crucifix I pledge my faith, on this

blade I devote my life, to the regeneration of Rome! And you (then no

need for mask or mantle!), when the solitary trump is heard, when the

solitary horseman is seen,--you, swear to rally round the standard of

the Republic, and resist--with heart and hand, with life and soul,

in defiance of death, and in hope of redemption--the arms of the

oppressor!”

“We swear--we swear!” exclaimed every voice: and, crowding toward cross

and weapon, the tapers were obscured by the intervening throng, and

Montreal could not perceive the ceremony, nor hear the muttered

formula of the oath: but he could guess that the rite then common to

conspiracies--and which required each conspirator to shed some drops

of his own blood, in token that life itself was devoted to the

enterprise--had not been omitted, when, the group again receding, the

same figure as before had addressed the meeting, holding on high the

bowl with both hands,--while from the left arm, which was bared,

the blood weltered slowly, and trickled, drop by drop, upon the

ground,--said, in a solemn voice and upturned eyes:

“Amidst the ruins of thy temple, O Liberty! we, Romans, dedicate to

thee this libation! We, befriended and inspired by no unreal and fabled

idols, but by the Lord of Hosts, and Him who, descending to earth,

appealed not to emperors and to princes, but to the fisherman and the

peasant,--giving to the lowly and the poor the mission of Revelation.”

Then, turning suddenly to his companions, as his features, singularly

varying in their character and expression, brightened, from solemn awe,

into a martial and kindling enthusiasm, he cried aloud, “Death to

the Tyranny! Life to the Republic!” The effect of the transition was

startling. Each man, as by an involuntary and irresistible impulse, laid

his hand upon his sword, as he echoed the sentiment; some, indeed, drew

forth their blades, as if for instant action.

“I have seen enow: they will break up anon,” said Montreal to himself:

“and I would rather face an army of thousands, than even half-a-dozen

enthusiasts, so inflamed,--and I thus detected.” And, with this thought,

he dropped on the ground, and glided away, as, once again, through the

still midnight air, broke upon his ear the muffled shout--“DEATH TO THE

TYRANNY!--LIFE TO THE REPUBLIC!”

BOOK II. THE REVOLUTION

“Ogni Lascivia, ogni male, nulla giustizia, nullo freno.

Non c’era piu remedia, ogni persona periva. Allora Cola di

Rienzi.” &c.--“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. chap. 2.

“Every kind of lewdness, every form of evil; no justice, no

restraint. Remedy there was none; perdition fell on all.

Then Cola di Rienzi,” &c.--“Life of Cola di Rienzi”.

Chapter 2.I. The Knight of Provence, and his Proposal.

It was nearly noon as Adrian entered the gates of the palace of Stephen

Colonna. The palaces of the nobles were not then as we see them now,

receptacles for the immortal canvas of Italian, and the imperishable

sculpture of Grecian Art; but still to this day are retained the massive

walls, and barred windows, and spacious courts, which at that time

protected their rude retainers. High above the gates rose a lofty and

solid tower, whose height commanded a wide view of the mutilated remains

of Rome: the gate itself was adorned and strengthened on either side by

columns of granite, whose Doric capitals betrayed the sacrilege that

had torn them from one of the many temples that had formerly crowded

the sacred Forum. From the same spoils came, too, the vast fragments of

travertine which made the walls of the outer court. So common at that

day were these barbarous appropriations of the most precious monuments

of art, that the columns and domes of earlier Rome were regarded by all

classes but as quarries, from which every man was free to gather the

materials, whether for his castle or his cottage,--a wantonness of

outrage far greater than the Goths’, to whom a later age would fain have

attributed all the disgrace, and which, more perhaps than even heavier

offences, excited the classical indignation of Petrarch, and made him

sympathise with Rienzi in his hopes of Rome. Still may you see

the churches of that or even earlier dates, of the most shapeless

architecture, built on the sites, and from the marbles, consecrating

(rather than consecrated by) the names of Venus, of Jupiter, of Minerva.

The palace of the Prince of the Orsini, duke of Gravina, is yet reared

above the graceful arches (still visible) of the theatre of Marcellus;

then a fortress of the Savelli.

As Adrian passed the court, a heavy waggon blocked up the way, laden

with huge marbles, dug from the unexhausted mine of the Golden House

of Nero: they were intended for an additional tower, by which Stephen

Colonna proposed yet more to strengthen the tasteless and barbarous

edifice in which the old noble maintained the dignity of outraging the

law.

The friend of Petrarch and the pupil of Rienzi sighed deeply as he

passed this vehicle of new spoliations, and as a pillar of fluted

alabaster, rolling carelessly from the waggon, fell with a loud crash

upon the pavement. At the foot of the stairs grouped some dozen of the

bandits whom the old Colonna entertained: they were playing at dice upon

an ancient tomb, the clear and deep inscription on which (so different

from the slovenly character of the later empire) bespoke it a memorial

of the most powerful age of Rome, and which, now empty even of ashes,

and upset, served for a table to these foreign savages, and was strewn,

even at that early hour, with fragments of meat and flasks of wine. They

scarcely stirred, they scarcely looked up, as the young noble passed

them; and their fierce oaths and loud ejaculations, uttered in a

northern patois, grated harsh upon his ear, as he mounted, with a slow

step, the lofty and unclean stairs. He came into a vast ante-chamber,

which was half-filled with the higher class of the patrician’s

retainers: some five or six pages, chosen from the inferior noblesse,

congregated by a narrow and deep-sunk casement, were discussing the

grave matters of gallantry and intrigue; three petty chieftains of the

band below, with their corselets donned, and their swords and casques

beside them, were sitting, stolid and silent, at a table, in the middle

of the room, and might have been taken for automatons, save for

the solemn regularity with which they ever and anon lifted to their

moustachioed lips their several goblets, and then, with a complacent

grunt, re-settled to their contemplations. Striking was the contrast

which their northern phlegm presented to a crowd of Italian clients, and

petitioners, and parasites, who walked restlessly to and fro, talking

loudly to each other, with all the vehement gestures and varying

physiognomy of southern vivacity. There was a general stir and sensation

as Adrian broke upon this miscellaneous company. The bandit captains

nodded their heads mechanically; the pages bowed, and admired the

fashion of his plume and hose; the clients, and petitioners, and

parasites, crowded round him, each with a separate request for interest

with his potent kinsman. Great need had Adrian of his wonted urbanity

and address, in extricating himself from their grasp; and painfully

did he win, at last, the low and narrow door, at which stood a tall

servitor, who admitted or rejected the applicants, according to his

interest or caprice.

“Is the Baron alone?” asked Adrian.

“Why, no, my Lord: a foreign signor is with him--but to you he is of

course visible.”

“Well, you may admit me. I would inquire of his health.”

The servitor opened the door--through whose aperture peered many a

jealous and wistful eye--and consigned Adrian to the guidance of a page,

who, older and of greater esteem than the loiterers in the ante-room,

was the especial henchman of the Lord of the Castle. Passing another,

but empty chamber, vast and dreary, Adrian found himself in a small

cabinet, and in the presence of his kinsman.

Before a table, bearing the implements of writing, sate the old Colonna:

a robe of rich furs and velvet hung loose upon his tall and stately

frame; from a round skull-cap, of comforting warmth and crimson hue, a

few grey locks descended, and mixed with a long and reverent beard. The

countenance of the aged noble, who had long passed his eightieth year,

still retained the traces of a comeliness for which in earlier manhood

he was remarkable. His eyes, if deep-sunken, were still keen and lively,

and sparkled with all the fire of youth; his mouth curved upward in a

pleasant, though half-satiric, smile; and his appearance on the whole

was prepossessing and commanding, indicating rather the high blood, the

shrewd wit, and the gallant valour of the patrician, than his craft,

hypocrisy, and habitual but disdainful spirit of oppression.

Stephen Colonna, without being absolutely a hero, was indeed far braver

than most of the Romans, though he held fast to the Italian maxim--never

to fight an enemy while it is possible to cheat him. Two faults,

however, marred the effect of his sagacity: a supreme insolence of

disposition, and a profound belief in the lights of his experience. He

was incapable of analogy. What had never happened in his time, he was

perfectly persuaded never could happen. Thus, though generally esteemed

an able diplomatist, he had the cunning of the intriguant, and not

the providence of a statesman. If, however, pride made him arrogant

in prosperity, it supported him in misfortune. And in the earlier

vicissitudes of a life which had partly been consumed in exile, he

had developed many noble qualities of fortitude, endurance, and real

greatness of soul; which showed that his failings were rather acquired

by circumstance than derived from nature. His numerous and highborn race

were proud of their chief; and with justice; for he was the ablest and

most honoured, not only of the direct branch of the Colonna, but also,

perhaps, of all the more powerful barons.

Seated at the same table with Stephen Colonna was a man of noble

presence, of about three or four and thirty years of age, in whom Adrian

instantly recognised Walter de Montreal. This celebrated knight was

scarcely of the personal appearance which might have corresponded with

the terror his name generally excited. His face was handsome, almost to

the extreme of womanish delicacy. His fair hair waved long and freely

over a white and unwrinkled forehead: the life of a camp and the suns of

Italy had but little embrowned his clear and healthful complexion, which

retained much of the bloom of youth. His features were aquiline

and regular; his eyes, of a light hazel, were large, bright, and

penetrating; and a short, but curled beard and moustachio, trimmed

with soldier-like precision, and very little darker than the hair, gave

indeed a martial expression to his comely countenance, but rather the

expression which might have suited the hero of courts and tournaments,

than the chief of a brigand’s camp. The aspect, manner, and bearing, of

the Provencal were those which captivate rather than awe,--blending,

as they did, a certain military frankness with the easy and graceful

dignity of one conscious of gentle birth, and accustomed to mix, on

equal terms, with the great and noble. His form happily contrasted and

elevated the character of a countenance which required strength and

stature to free its uncommon beauty from the charge of effeminacy,

being of great height and remarkable muscular power, without the least

approach to clumsy and unwieldy bulk: it erred, indeed, rather to the

side of leanness than flesh,--at once robust and slender. But the chief

personal distinction of this warrior, the most redoubted lance of Italy,

was an air and carriage of chivalric and heroic grace, greatly set off

at this time by his splendid dress, which was of brown velvet sown with

pearls, over which hung the surcoat worn by the Knights of the Hospital,

whereon was wrought, in white, the eight-pointed cross that made

the badge of his order. The Knight’s attitude was that of earnest

conversation, bending slightly forward towards the Colonna, and resting

both his hands--which (according to the usual distinction of the old

Norman race, (Small hands and feet, however disproportioned to the rest

of the person, were at that time deemed no less a distinction of the

well-born, than they have been in a more refined age. Many readers

will remember the pain occasioned to Petrarch by his tight shoes. The

supposed beauty of this peculiarity is more derived from the feudal than

the classic time.) from whom, though born in Provence, Montreal boasted

his descent) were small and delicate, the fingers being covered with

jewels, as was the fashion of the day--upon the golden hilt of an

enormous sword, on the sheath of which was elaborately wrought the

silver lilies that made the device of the Provencal Brotherhood of

Jerusalem.

“Good morrow, fair kinsman!” said Stephen. “Seat thyself, I pray; and

know in this knightly visitor the celebrated Sieur de Montreal.”

“Ah, my Lord,” said Montreal, smiling, as he saluted Adrian; “and how is

my lady at home?”

“You mistake, Sir Knight,” quoth Stephen; “my young kinsman is not yet

married: faith, as Pope Boniface remarked, when he lay stretched on a

sick bed, and his confessor talked to him about Abraham’s bosom, ‘that

is a pleasure the greater for being deferred.’”

“The Signor will pardon my mistake,” returned Montreal.

“But not,” said Adrian, “the neglect of Sir Walter in not ascertaining

the fact in person. My thanks to him, noble kinsman, are greater than

you weet of; and he promised to visit me, that he might receive them at

leisure.”

“I assure you, Signor,” answered Montreal, “that I have not forgotten

the invitation; but so weighty hitherto have been my affairs at Rome,

that I have been obliged to parley with my impatience to better our

acquaintance.”

“Oh, ye knew each other before?” said Stephen. “And how?”

“My Lord, there is a damsel in the case!” replied Montreal. “Excuse my

silence.”

“Ah, Adrian, Adrian! when will you learn my continence!” said Stephen,

solemnly stroking his grey beard. “What an example I set you! But a

truce to this light conversation,--let us resume our theme. You must

know, Adrian, that it is to the brave band of my guest I am indebted for

those valiant gentlemen below, who keep Rome so quiet, though my poor

habitation so noisy. He has called to proffer more assistance, if need

be; and to advise me on the affairs of Northern Italy. Continue, I pray

thee, Sir Knight; I have no disguises from my kinsman.”

“Thou seest,” said Montreal, fixing his penetrating eyes on Adrian,

“thou seest, doubtless, my Lord, that Italy at this moment presents to

us a remarkable spectacle. It is a contest between two opposing powers,

which shall destroy the other. The one power is that of the unruly and

turbulent people--a power which they call ‘Liberty;’ the other power is

that of the chiefs and princes--a power which they more appropriately

call ‘Order.’ Between these parties the cities of Italy are divided.

In Florence, in Genoa, in Pisa, for instance, is established a Free

State--a Republic, God wot! and a more riotous, unhappy state of

government, cannot well be imagined.”

“That is perfectly true,” quoth Stephen; “they banished my own first

cousin from Genoa.”

“A perpetual strife, in short,” continued Montreal, “between the

great families; an alternation of prosecutions, and confiscations, and

banishments: today, the Guelfs proscribe the Ghibellines--tomorrow, the

Ghibellines drive out the Guelfs. This may be liberty, but it is the

liberty of the strong against the weak. In the other cities, as Milan,

as Verona, as Bologna, the people are under the rule of one man,--who

calls himself a prince, and whom his enemies call a tyrant. Having more

force than any other citizen, he preserves a firm government; having

more constant demand on his intellect and energies than the other

citizens, he also preserves a wise one. These two orders of government

are enlisted against each other: whenever the people in the one rebel

against their prince, the people of the other--that is, the Free

States--send arms and money to their assistance.”

“You hear, Adrian, how wicked those last are,” quoth Stephen.

“Now it seems to me,” continued Montreal, “that this contest must end

some time or other. All Italy must become republican or monarchical. It

is easy to predict which will be the result.”

“Yes, Liberty must conquer in the end!” said Adrian, warmly.

“Pardon me, young Lord; my opinion is entirely the reverse. You perceive

that these republics are commercial,--are traders; they esteem wealth,

they despise valour, they cultivate all trades save that of the

armourer. Accordingly, how do they maintain themselves in war: by their

own citizens? Not a whit of it! Either they send to some foreign chief,

and promise, if he grant them his protection, the principality of the

city for five or ten years in return; or else they borrow from some

hardy adventurer, like myself, as many troops as they can afford to pay

for. Is it not so, Lord Adrian?”

Adrian nodded his reluctant assent.

“Well, then, it is the fault of the foreign chief if he do not make his

power permanent; as has been already done in States once free by the

Visconti and the Scala: or else it is the fault of the captain of the

mercenaries if he do not convert his brigands into senators, and himself

into a king. These are events so natural, that one day or other

they will occur throughout all Italy. And all Italy will then become

monarchical. Now it seems to me the interest of all the powerful

families--your own, at Rome, as that of the Visconti, at Milan--to

expedite this epoch, and to check, while you yet may with ease, that

rebellious contagion amongst the people which is now rapidly spreading,

and which ends in the fever of licence to them, but in the corruption of

death to you. In these free States, the nobles are the first to suffer:

first your privileges, then your property, are swept away. Nay, in

Florence, as ye well know, my Lords, no noble is even capable of holding

the meanest office in the State!”

“Villains!” said Colonna, “they violate the first law of nature!”

“At this moment,” resumed Montreal, who, engrossed with his subject,

little heeded the interruptions he received from the holy indignation of

the Baron: “at this moment, there are many--the wisest, perhaps, in the

free States--who desire to renew the old Lombard leagues, in defence of

their common freedom everywhere, and against whosoever shall aspire to

be prince. Fortunately, the deadly jealousies between these

merchant States--the base plebeian jealousies--more of trade than of

glory--interpose at present an irresistible obstacle to this design; and

Florence, the most stirring and the most esteemed of all, is happily so

reduced by reverses of commerce as to be utterly unable to follow out

so great an undertaking. Now, then, is the time for us, my Lords; while

these obstacles are so great for our foes, now is the time for us to

form and cement a counter-league between all the princes of Italy. To

you, noble Stephen, I have come, as your rank demands,--alone, of all

the barons of Rome,--to propose to you this honourable union. Observe

what advantages it proffers to your house. The popes have abandoned Rome

for ever; there is no counterpoise to your ambition,--there need be none

to your power. You see before you the examples of Visconti and Taddeo

di Pepoli. You may found in Rome, the first city of Italy, a supreme and

uncontrolled principality, subjugate utterly your weaker rivals,--the

Savelli, the Malatesta, the Orsini,--and leave to your sons’ sons an

hereditary kingdom that may aspire once more, perhaps, to the empire of

the world.”

Stephen shaded his face with his hand as he answered: “But this, noble

Montreal, requires means:--money and men.”

“Of the last, you can command from me enow--my small company, the best

disciplined, can (whenever I please) swell to the most numerous in

Italy: in the first, noble Baron, the rich House of Colonna cannot fail;

and even a mortgage on its vast estates may be well repaid when you have

possessed yourselves of the whole revenues of Rome. You see,” continued

Montreal, turning to Adrian, in whose youth he expected a more warm ally

than in the his hoary kinsman: “you see, at a glance, how feasible is

this project, and what a mighty field it opens to your House.”

“Sir Walter de Montreal,” said Adrian, rising from his seat, and giving

vent to the indignation he had with difficulty suppressed, “I grieve

much that, beneath the roof of the first citizen of Rome, a stranger

should attempt thus calmly, and without interruption, to excite the

ambition of emulating the execrated celebrity of a Visconti or a Pepoli.

Speak, my Lord! (turning to Stephen)--speak, noble kinsman! and tell

this Knight of Provence, that if by a Colonna the ancient grandeur of

Rome cannot be restored, it shall not be, at least, by a Colonna that

her last wrecks of liberty shall be swept away.”

“How now, Adrian!--how now, sweet kinsman!” said Stephen, thus suddenly

appealed to, “calm thyself, I pr’ythee. Noble Sir Walter, he is

young--young, and hasty--he means not to offend thee.”

“Of that I am persuaded,” returned Montreal, coldly, but with great

and courteous command of temper. “He speaks from the impulse of the

moment,--a praiseworthy fault in youth. It was mine at his age, and

many a time have I nearly lost my life for the rashness. Nay, Signor,

nay!--touch not your sword so meaningly, as if you fancied I intimated a

threat; far from me such presumption. I have learned sufficient caution,

believe me, in the wars, not wantonly to draw against me a blade which I

have seen wielded against such odds.”

Touched, despite himself, by the courtesy of the Knight, and the

allusion to a scene in which, perhaps, his life had been preserved by

Montreal, Adrian extended his hand to the latter.

“I was to blame for my haste,” said he, frankly; “but know, by my very

heat,” he added more gravely, “that your project will find no friends

among the Colonna. Nay, in the presence of my noble kinsman, I dare

to tell you, that could even his high sanction lend itself to such a

scheme, the best hearts of his house would desert him; and I myself, his

kinsman, would man yonder castle against so unnatural an ambition!”

A slight and scarce perceptible cloud passed over Montreal’s countenance

at these words; and he bit his lip ere he replied:

“Yet if the Orsini be less scrupulous, their first exertion of power

would be heard in the crashing house of the Colonna.”

“Know you,” returned Adrian, “that one of our mottoes is this haughty

address to the Romans,--‘If we fall, ye fall also?’ And better that

fate, than a rise upon the wrecks of our native city.”

“Well, well, well!” said Montreal, reseating himself, “I see that I must

leave Rome to herself,--the League must thrive without her aid. I did

but jest, touching the Orsini, for they have not the power that would

make their efforts safe. Let us sweep, then, our past conference from

our recollection. It is the nineteenth, I think, Lord Colonna, on which

you propose to repair to Corneto, with your friends and retainers, and

on which you have invited my attendance?”

“It is on that day, Sir Knight,” replied the Baron, evidently much

relieved by the turn the conversation had assumed. “The fact is, that

we have been so charged with indifference to the interests of the good

people, that I strain a point in this expedition to contradict the

assertion; and we propose, therefore, to escort and protect, against the

robbers of the road, a convoy of corn to Corneto. In truth, I may add

another reason, besides fear of the robbers, that makes me desire as

numerous a train as possible. I wish to show my enemies, and the people

generally, the solid and growing power of my house; the display of

such an armed band as I hope to levy, will be a magnificent occasion

to strike awe into the riotous and refractory. Adrian, you will collect

your servitors, I trust, on that day; we would not be without you.”

“And as we ride along, fair Signor,” said Montreal, inclining to Adrian,

“we will find at least one subject on which we can agree: all brave men

and true knights have one common topic,--and its name is Woman. You must

make me acquainted with the names of the fairest dames of Rome; and we

will discuss old adventures in the Parliament of Love, and hope for

new. By the way, I suppose, Lord Adrian, you, with the rest of your

countrymen, are Petrarch-stricken?”

“Do you not share our enthusiasm? slur not so your gallantry, I pray

you.”

“Come, we must not again disagree; but, by my halidame, I think one

troubadour roundel worth all that Petrarch ever wrote. He has but

borrowed from our knightly poesy, to disguise it, like a carpet

coxcomb.”

“Well,” said Adrian, gaily, “for every line of the troubadours that

you quote, I will cite you another. I will forgive you for injustice to

Petrarch, if you are just to the troubadours.”

“Just!” cried Montreal, with real enthusiasm: “I am of the land, nay

the very blood of the troubadour! But we grow too light for your noble

kinsman; and it is time for me to bid you, for the present, farewell. My

Lord Colonna, peace be with you; farewell, Sir Adrian,--brother mine in

knighthood,--remember your challenge.”

And with an easy and careless grace the Knight of St. John took his

leave. The old Baron, making a dumb sign of excuse to Adrian, followed

Montreal into the adjoining room.

“Sir Knight!” said he, “Sir Knight!” as he closed the door upon Adrian,

and then drew Montreal to the recess of the casement,--“a word in your

ear. Think not I slight your offer, but these young men must be managed;

the plot is great--noble,--grateful to my heart; but it requires time

and caution. I have many of my house, scrupulous as yon hot-skull, to

win over; the way is pleasant, but must be sounded well and carefully;

you understand?”

From under his bent brows, Montreal darted one keen glance at Stephen,

and then answered:

“My friendship for you dictated my offer. The League may stand without

the Colonna,--beware a time when the Colonna cannot stand without the

League. My Lord, look well around you; there are more freemen--ay, bold

and stirring ones, too--in Rome, than you imagine. Beware Rienzi! Adieu,

we meet soon again.”

Thus saying, Montreal departed, soliloquising as he passed with his

careless step through the crowded ante-room:

“I shall fail here!--these caitiff nobles have neither the courage to

be great, nor the wisdom to be honest. Let them fall!--I may find an

adventurer from the people, an adventurer like myself, worth them all.”

No sooner had Stephen returned to Adrian than he flung his arms

affectionately round his ward, who was preparing his pride for some

sharp rebuke for his petulance.

“Nobly feigned,--admirable, admirable!” cried the Baron; “you have

learned the true art of a statesman at the Emperor’s court. I always

thought you would--always said it. You saw the dilemma I was in,

thus taken by surprise by that barbarian’s mad scheme; afraid to

refuse,--more afraid to accept. You extricated me with consummate

address: that passion,--so natural to your age,--was a famous feint;

drew off the attack; gave me time to breathe; allowed me to play with

the savage. But we must not offend him, you know: all my retainers would

desert me, or sell me to the Orsini, or cut my throat, if he but held up

his finger. Oh! it was admirably managed, Adrian--admirably!”

“Thank Heaven!” said Adrian, with some difficulty recovering the breath

which his astonishment had taken away, “you do not think of embracing

that black proposition?”

“Think of it! no, indeed!” said Stephen, throwing himself back on his

chair. “Why, do you not know my age, boy? Hard on my ninetieth year, I

should be a fool indeed to throw myself into such a whirl of turbulence

and agitation. I want to keep what I have, not risk it by grasping more.

Am I not the beloved of the pope? shall I hazard his excommunication? Am

I not the most powerful of the nobles? should I be more if I were king?

At my age, to talk to me of such stuff!--the man’s an idiot. Besides,”

added the old man, sinking his voice, and looking fearfully round, “if

I were a king, my sons might poison me for the succession. They are

good lads, Adrian, very! But such a temptation!--I would not throw it in

their way; these grey hairs have experience! Tyrants don’t die a natural

death; no, no! Plague on the Knight, say I; he has already cast me into

a cold sweat.”

Adrian gazed on the working features of the old man, whose selfishness

thus preserved him from crime. He listened to his concluding words--full

of the dark truth of the times; and as the high and pure ambition of

Rienzi flashed upon him in contrast, he felt that he could not blame its

fervour, or wonder at its excess.

“And then, too,” resumed the Baron, speaking more deliberately as he

recovered his self-possession, “this man, by way of a warning, shows me,

at a glance, his whole ignorance of the state. What think you? he has

mingled with the mob, and taken their rank breath for power; yes, he

thinks words are soldiers, and bade me--me, Stephen Colonna--beware--of

whom, think you? No, you will never guess!--of that speech-maker,

Rienzi! my own old jesting guest! Ha! ha! ha!--the ignorance of these

barbarians! Ha! ha! ha! and the old man laughed till the tears ran down

his cheeks.

“Yet many of the nobles fear that same Rienzi,” said Adrian, gravely.

“Ah! let them, let them!--they have not our experience--our knowledge

of the world, Adrian. Tut, man,--when did declamation ever overthrow

castles, and conquer soldiery? I like Rienzi to harangue the mob about

old Rome, and such stuff; it gives them something to think of and prate

about, and so all their fierceness evaporates in words; they might burn

a house if they did not hear a speech. But, now I am on that score, I

must own the pedant has grown impudent in his new office; here, here,--I

received this paper ere I rose today. I hear a similar insolence has

been shown to all the nobles. Read it, will you,” and the Colonna put a

scroll into his kinsman’s hand.

“I have received the like,” said Adrian, glancing at it. “It is a

request of Rienzi’s to attend at the Church of St. John of Lateran, to

hear explained the inscription on a Table just discovered. It bears, he

saith, the most intimate connexion with the welfare and state of Rome.”

“Very entertaining, I dare to say, to professors and bookmen. Pardon me,

kinsman; I forgot your taste for these things; and my son, Gianni, too,

shares your fantasy. Well, well! it is innocent enough! Go--the man

talks well.”

“Will you not attend, too?”

“I--my dear boy--I!” said the old Colonna, opening his eyes in such

astonishment that Adrian could not help laughing at the simplicity of

his own question.

Chapter 2.II. The Interview, and the Doubt.

As Adrian turned from the palace of his guardian, and bent his way in

the direction of the Forum, he came somewhat unexpectedly upon Raimond,

bishop of Orvietto, who, mounted upon a low palfrey, and accompanied

by some three or four of his waiting-men, halted abruptly when he

recognised the young noble.

“Ah, my son! it is seldom that I see thee: how fares it with

thee?--well? So, so! I rejoice to hear it. Alas! what a state of society

is ours, when compared to the tranquil pleasures of Avignon! There,

all men who, like us, are fond of the same pursuits, the same studies,

deliciae musarum, hum! hum! (the Bishop was proud of an occasional

quotation, right or wrong), are brought easily and naturally together.

But here we scarcely dare stir out of our houses, save upon great

occasions. But, talking of great occasions, and the Muses, reminds me of

our good Rienzi’s invitation to the Lateran: of course you will attend;

‘tis a mighty knotty piece of Latin he proposes to solve--so I hear, at

least; very interesting to us, my son,--very!”

“It is tomorrow,” answered Adrian. “Yes, assuredly; I will be there.”

“And, harkye, my son,” said the Bishop, resting his hand affectionately

on Adrian’s shoulder, “I have reason to hope that he will remind our

poor citizens of the Jubilee for the year Fifty, and stir them towards

clearing the road of the brigands: a necessary injunction, and one to be

heeded timeously; for who will come here for absolution when he stands

a chance of rushing unannealed upon purgatory by the way? You have heard

Rienzi,--ay? quite a Cicero--quite! Well, Heaven bless you, my son! You

will not fail?”

“Nay, not I.”

“Yet, stay--a word with you: just suggest to all whom you may meet

the advisability of a full meeting; it looks well for the city to show

respect to letters.”

“To say nothing of the Jubilee,” added Adrian, smiling.

“Ah, to say nothing of the Jubilee--very good! Adieu for the present!”

And the Bishop, resettling himself on his saddle, ambled solemnly on to

visit his various friends, and press them to the meeting.

Meanwhile, Adrian continued his course till he had passed the Capitol,

the Arch of Severus, the crumbling columns of the fane of Jupiter,

and found himself amidst the long grass, the whispering reeds, and the

neglected vines, that wave over the now-vanished pomp of the Golden

House of Nero. Seating himself on a fallen pillar--by that spot where

the traveller descends to the (so called) Baths of Livia--he looked

impatiently to the sun, as to blame it for the slowness of its march.

Not long, however, had he to wait before a light step was heard crushing

the fragrant grass; and presently through the arching vines gleamed a

face that might well have seemed the nymph, the goddess of the scene.

“My beautiful! my Irene!--how shall I thank thee!”

It was long before the delighted lover suffered himself to observe upon

Irene’s face a sadness that did not usually cloud it in his presence.

Her voice, too, trembled; her words seemed constrained and cold.

“Have I offended thee?” he asked; “or what less misfortune hath

occurred?”

Irene raised her eyes to her lover’s, and said, looking at him

earnestly, “Tell me, my Lord, in sober and simple truth, tell me, would

it grieve thee much were this to be our last meeting?”

Paler than the marble at his feet grew the dark cheek of Adrian. It was

some moments ere he could reply, and he did so then with a forced smile

and a quivering lip.

“Jest not so, Irene! Last!--that is not a word for us!”

“But hear me, my Lord--”

“Why so cold?--call me Adrian!--friend!--lover! or be dumb!”

“Well, then, my soul’s soul! my all of hope! my life’s life!” exclaimed

Irene, passionately, “hear me! I fear that we stand at this moment upon

some gulf whose depth I see not, but which may divide us for ever! Thou

knowest the real nature of my brother, and dost not misread him as many

do. Long has he planned, and schemed, and communed with himself, and,

feeling his way amidst the people, prepared the path to some great

design. But now--(thou wilt not betray--thou wilt not injure him?--he is

thy friend!)”

“And thy brother! I would give my life for his! Say on!”

“But now, then,” resumed Irene, “the time for that enterprise, whatever

it be, is coming fast. I know not of its exact nature, but I know that

it is against the nobles--against thy order--against thy house itself!

If it succeed--oh, Adrian! thou thyself mayst not be free from danger;

and my name, at least, will be coupled with the name of thy foes. If it

fail,--my brother, my bold brother, is swept away! He will fall a victim

to revenge or justice, call it as you will. Your kinsman may be his

judge--his executioner; and I--even if I should yet live to mourn over

the boast and glory of my humble line--could I permit myself to love,

to see, one in whose veins flowed the blood of his destroyer? Oh! I am

wretched--wretched! these thoughts make me well-nigh mad!” and, wringing

her hands bitterly, Irene sobbed aloud.

Adrian himself was struck forcibly by the picture thus presented to

him, although the alternative it embraced had often before forced itself

dimly on his mind. It was true, however, that, not seeing the schemes of

Rienzi backed by any physical power, and never yet having witnessed the

mighty force of a moral revolution, he did not conceive that any rise

to which he might instigate the people could be permanently successful:

and, as for his punishment, in that city, where all justice was the

slave of interest, Adrian knew himself powerful enough to obtain

forgiveness even for the greatest of all crimes--armed insurrection

against the nobles. As these thoughts recurred to him, he gained the

courage to console and cheer Irene. But his efforts were only partially

successful. Awakened by her fears to that consideration of the future

which hitherto she had forgotten, Irene, for the first time, seemed deaf

to the charmer’s voice.

“Alas!” said she, sadly, “even at the best, what can this love, that we

have so blindly encouraged--what can it end in? Thou must not wed with

one like me; and I! how foolish I have been!”

“Recall thy senses then, Irene,” said Adrian, proudly, partly perhaps

in anger, partly in his experience of the sex. “Love another, and more

wisely, if thou wilt; cancel thy vows with me, and continue to think it

a crime to love, and a folly to be true!”

“Cruel!” said Irene, falteringly, and in her turn alarmed. “Dost thou

speak in earnest?”

“Tell me, ere I answer you, tell me this: come death, come anguish, come

a whole life of sorrow, as the end of this love, wouldst thou yet repent

that thou hast loved? If so, thou knowest not the love that I feel for

thee.”

“Never! never can I repent!” said Irene, falling upon Adrian’s neck;

“forgive me!”

“But is there, in truth,” said Adrian, a little while after this

lover-like quarrel and reconciliation, “is there, in truth, so marked

a difference between thy brother’s past and his present bearing? How

knowest thou that the time for action is so near?”

“Because now he sits closeted whole nights with all ranks of men; he

shuts up his books,--he reads no more,--but, when alone, walks to and

fro his chamber, muttering to himself. Sometimes he pauses before the

calendar, which of late he has fixed with his own hand against the wall,

and passes his finger over the letters, till he comes to some chosen

date, and then he plays with his sword and smiles. But two nights since,

arms, too, in great number were brought to the house; and I heard the

chief of the men who brought them, a grim giant, known well amongst the

people, say, as he wiped his brow,--‘These will see work soon!’”

“Arms! Are you sure of that?” said Adrian, anxiously. “Nay, then, there

is more in these schemes than I imagined! But (observing Irene’s gaze

bent fearfully on him as his voice changed, he added, more gaily)--but

come what may, believe me--my beautiful! my adored! that while I live,

thy brother shall not suffer from the wrath he may provoke,--nor I,

though he forget our ancient friendship, cease to love thee less.”

“Signora! Signora! child! it is time! we must go!” said the shrill voice

of Benedetta, now peering through the foliage. “The working men pass

home this way; I see them approaching.”

The lovers parted; for the first time the serpent had penetrated into

their Eden,--they had conversed, they had thought, of other things than

Love.

Chapter 2.III. The Situation of a Popular Patrician in Times of Popular

Discontent.--Scene of the Lateran.

The situation of a Patrician who honestly loves the people is, in those

evil times, when power oppresses and freedom struggles,--when the two

divisions of men are wrestling against each other,--the most irksome and

perplexing that destiny can possibly contrive. Shall he take part with

the nobles?--he betrays his conscience! With the people?--he deserts

his friends! But that consequence of the last alternative is not the

sole--nor, perhaps, to a strong mind, the most severe. All men are

swayed and chained by public opinion--it is the public judge; but public

opinion is not the same for all ranks. The public opinion that excites

or deters the plebeian, is the opinion of the plebeians,--of those

whom he sees, and meets, and knows; of those with whom he is brought

in contact,--those with whom he has mixed from childhood,--those whose

praises are daily heard,--whose censure frowns upon him with every

hour. (It is the same in still smaller divisions. The public opinion for

lawyers is that of lawyers; of soldiers, that of the army; of scholars,

it is that of men of literature and science. And to the susceptible

amongst the latter, the hostile criticism of learning has been more

stinging than the severest moral censures of the vulgar. Many a man has

done a great act, or composed a great work, solely to please the two

or three persons constantly present to him. Their voice was his public

opinion. The public opinion that operated on Bishop, the murderer, was

the opinion of the Burkers, his comrades. Did that condemn him? No! He

knew no other public opinion till he came to be hanged, and caught the

loathing eyes, and heard the hissing execrations of the crowd below his

gibbet.) So, also, the public opinion of the great is the opinion of

their equals,--of those whom birth and accident cast for ever in their

way. This distinction is full of important practical deductions; it

is one which, more than most maxims, should never be forgotten by a

politician who desires to be profound. It is, then, an ordeal terrible

to pass--which few plebeians ever pass, which it is therefore unjust to

expect patricians to cross unfaulteringly--the ordeal of opposing the

public opinion which exists for them. They cannot help doubting their

own judgment,--they cannot help thinking the voice of wisdom or of

virtue speaks in those sounds which have been deemed oracles from

their cradle. In the tribunal of Sectarian Prejudice they imagine

they recognise the court of the Universal Conscience. Another powerful

antidote to the activity of a patrician so placed, is in the certainty

that to the last the motives of such activity will be alike misconstrued

by the aristocracy he deserts and the people he joins. It seems so

unnatural in a man to fly in the face of his own order, that the world

is willing to suppose any clue to the mystery save that of honest

conviction or lofty patriotism. “Ambition!” says one. “Disappointment!”

cries another. “Some private grudge!” hints a third. “Mob-courting

vanity!” sneers a fourth. The people admire at first, but suspect

afterwards. The moment he thwarts a popular wish, there is no redemption

for him: he is accused of having acted the hypocrite,--of having worn

the sheep’s fleece: and now, say they,--“See! the wolf’s teeth

peep out!” Is he familiar with the people?--it is cajolery! Is he

distant?--it is pride! What, then, sustains a man in such a situation,

following his own conscience, with his eyes opened to all the perils

of the path? Away with the cant of public opinion,--away with the poor

delusion of posthumous justice; he will offend the first, he will never

obtain the last. What sustains him? HIS OWN SOUL! A man thoroughly great

has a certain contempt for his kind while he aids them: their weal or

woe are all; their applause--their blame--are nothing to him. He walks

forth from the circle of birth and habit; he is deaf to the little

motives of little men. High, through the widest space his orbit may

describe, he holds on his course to guide or to enlighten; but the

noises below reach him not! Until the wheel is broken,--until the dark

void swallow up the star,--it makes melody, night and day, to its own

ear: thirsting for no sound from the earth it illumines, anxious for no

companionship in the path through which it rolls, conscious of its own

glory, and contented, therefore, to be alone!

But minds of this order are rare. All ages cannot produce them. They

are exceptions to the ordinary and human virtue, which is influenced

and regulated by external circumstance. At a time when even to be merely

susceptible to the voice of fame was a great pre-eminence in moral

energies over the rest of mankind, it would be impossible that any

one should ever have formed the conception of that more refined and

metaphysical sentiment, that purer excitement to high deeds--that glory

in one’s own heart, which is so immeasurably above the desire of a

renown that lackeys the heels of others. In fact, before we can

dispense with the world, we must, by a long and severe novitiate--by the

probation of much thought, and much sorrow--by deep and sad conviction

of the vanity of all that the world can give us, have raised our

selves--not in the fervour of an hour, but habitually--above the world:

an abstraction--an idealism--which, in our wiser age, how few even of

the wisest, can attain! Yet, till we are thus fortunate, we know not

the true divinity of contemplation, nor the all-sufficing mightiness of

conscience; nor can we retreat with solemn footsteps into that Holy of

Holies in our own souls, wherein we know, and feel, how much our nature

is capable of the self-existence of a God!

But to return to the things and thoughts of earth. Those considerations,

and those links of circumstance, which, in a similar situation have

changed so many honest and courageous minds, changed also the mind of

Adrian. He felt in a false position. His reason and conscience shared in

the schemes of Rienzi, and his natural hardihood and love of enterprise

would have led him actively to share the danger of their execution. But

this, all his associations, his friendships, his private and household

ties, loudly forbade. Against his order, against his house, against the

companions of his youth, how could he plot secretly, or act sternly?

By the goal to which he was impelled by patriotism, stood hypocrisy and

ingratitude. Who would believe him the honest champion of his country

who was a traitor to his friends? Thus, indeed,

“The native hue of resolution

Was sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought!”

And he who should have been by nature a leader of the time became only

its spectator. Yet Adrian endeavoured to console himself for his present

passiveness in a conviction of the policy of his conduct. He who takes

no share in the commencement of civil revolutions, can often become,

with the most effect, a mediator between the passions and the parties

subsequently formed. Perhaps, under Adrian’s circumstances, delay was

really the part of a prudent statesman; the very position which cripples

at the first, often gives authority before the end. Clear from the

excesses, and saved from the jealousies, of rival factions, all men

are willing to look with complaisance and respect to a new actor in a

turbulent drama; his moderation may make him trusted by the people; his

rank enable him to be a fitting mediator with the nobles; and thus the

qualities that would have rendered him a martyr at one period of the

Revolution, raise him perhaps into a saviour at another.

Silent, therefore, and passive, Adrian waited the progress of events. If

the projects of Rienzi failed, he might, by that in activity, the better

preserve the people from new chains, and their champion from death.

If those projects succeeded, he might equally save his house from the

popular wrath--and, advocating liberty, check disorder. Such, at least,

were his hopes; and thus did the Italian sagacity and caution of his

character control and pacify the enthusiasm of youth and courage.

The sun shone, calm and cloudless, upon the vast concourse gathered

before the broad space that surrounds the Church of St. John of

Lateran. Partly by curiosity--partly by the desire of the Bishop of

Orvietto--partly because it was an occasion in which they could display

the pomp of their retinues--many of the principal Barons of Rome had

gathered to this spot.

On one of the steps ascending to the church, with his mantle folded

round him, stood Walter de Montreal, gazing on the various parties that,

one after another, swept through the lane which the soldiers of the

Church preserved unimpeded, in the middle of the crowd, for the access

of the principal nobles. He watched with interest, though with his usual

carelessness of air and roving glance, the different marks and looks

of welcome given by the populace to the different personages of note.

Banners and penons preceded each Signor, and, as they waved aloft, the

witticisms or nicknames--the brief words of praise or censure, that

imply so much--which passed to and fro among that lively crowd, were

treasured carefully in his recollection.

“Make way, there!--way for my Lord Martino Orsini--Baron di Porto!”

“Peace, minion!--draw back! way for the Signor Adrian Colonna, Baron di

Castello, and Knight of the Empire.”

And at those two rival shouts, you saw waving on high the golden bear of

the Orsini, with the motto--“Beware my embrace!” and the solitary column

on an azure ground, of the Colonna, with Adrian’s especial device--“Sad,

but strong.” The train of Martino Orsini was much more numerous than

that of Adrian, which last consisted but of ten servitors. But Adrian’s

men attracted far greater admiration amongst the crowd, and pleased more

the experienced eye of the warlike Knight of St. John. Their arms were

polished like mirrors; their height was to an inch the same; their march

was regular and sedate; their mien erect; they looked neither to the

right nor left; they betrayed that ineffable discipline--that harmony

of order--which Adrian had learned to impart to his men during his own

apprenticeship of arms. But the disorderly train of the Lord of Porto

was composed of men of all heights. Their arms were ill-polished and

ill-fashioned, and they pressed confusedly on each other; they laughed

and spoke aloud; and in their mien and bearing expressed all the

insolence of men who despised alike the master they served and the

people they awed. The two bands coming unexpectedly on each other

through this narrow defile, the jealousy of the two houses presently

declared itself. Each pressed forward for the precedence; and, as the

quiet regularity of Adrian’s train, and even its compact paucity of

numbers, enabled it to pass before the servitors of his rival, the

populace set up a loud shout--“A Colonna for ever!”--“Let the Bear dance

after the Column!”

“On, ye knaves!” said Orsini aloud to his men. “How have ye suffered

this affront?” And passing himself to the head of his men, he would have

advanced through the midst of his rival’s train, had not a tall guard,

in the Pope’s livery, placed his baton in the way.

“Pardon, my Lord! we have the Vicar’s express commands to suffer no

struggling of the different trains one with another.”

“Knave! dost thou bandy words with me?” said the fierce Orsini; and with

his sword he clove the baton in two.

“In the Vicar’s name, I command you to fall back!” said the sturdy

guard, now placing his huge bulk in the very front of the noble’s path.

“It is Cecco del Vecchio!” cried those of the populace, who were near

enough to perceive the interruption and its cause.

“Ay,” said one, “the good Vicar has put many of the stoutest fellows

in the Pope’s livery, in order the better to keep peace. He could have

chosen none better than Cecco.”

“But he must not fall!” cried another, as Orsini, glaring on the smith,

drew back his sword as if to plunge it through his bosom.

“Shame--shame! shall the Pope be thus insulted in his own city?” cried

several voices. “Down with the sacrilegious--down!” And, as if by a

preconcerted plan, a whole body of the mob broke at once through

the lane, and swept like a torrent over Orsini and his jostled and

ill-assorted train. Orsini himself was thrown on the ground with

violence, and trampled upon by a hundred footsteps; his men, huddled and

struggling as much against themselves as against the mob, were scattered

and overset; and when, by a great effort of the guards, headed by the

smith himself, order was again restored, and the line reformed, Orsini,

well nigh choked with his rage and humiliation, and greatly bruised by

the rude assaults he had received, could scarcely stir from the ground.

The officers of the Pope raised him, and, when he was on his legs, he

looked wildly around for his sword, which, falling from his hand, had

been kicked amongst the crowd, and seeing it not, he said, between his

ground teeth, to Cecco del Vecchio--

“Fellow, thy neck shall answer this outrage, or may God desert me!” and

passed along through the space; while a half-suppressed and exultant

hoot from the bystanders followed his path.

“Way there!” cried the smith, “for the Lord Martino di Porto, and may

all the people know that he has threatened to take my life for the

discharge of my duty in obedience to the Pope’s Vicar!”

“He dare not!” shouted out a thousand voices; “the people can protect

their own!”

This scene had not been lost on the Provencal, who well knew how to

construe the wind by the direction of straws, and saw at once, by the

boldness of the populace, that they themselves were conscious of a

coming tempest. “Par Dieu,” said he, as he saluted Adrian, who, gravely,

and without looking behind, had now won the steps of the church, “yon

tall fellow has a brave heart, and many friends, too. What think you,”

he added, in a low whisper, “is not this scene a proof that the nobles

are less safe than they wot of?”

“The beast begins to kick against the spur, Sir Knight,” answered

Adrian, “a wise horseman should, in such a case, take care how he

pull the rein too tight, lest the beast should rear, and he be

overthrown--yet that is the policy thou wouldst recommend.”

“You mistake,” returned Montreal, “my wish was to give Rome one

sovereign instead of many tyrants,--but hark! what means that bell?”

“The ceremony is about to begin,” answered Adrian. “Shall we enter the

church together?”

Seldom had a temple consecrated to God witnessed so singular a spectacle

as that which now animated the solemn space of the Lateran.

In the centre of the church, seats were raised in an amphitheatre, at

the far end of which was a scaffolding, a little higher than the rest;

below this spot, but high enough to be in sight of all the concourse,

was placed a vast table of iron, on which was graven an ancient

inscription, and bearing in its centre a clear and prominent device,

presently to be explained.

The seats were covered with cloth and rich tapestry. In the rear of

the church was drawn a purple curtain. Around the amphitheatre were the

officers of the Church, in the party-coloured liveries of the Pope. To

the right of the scaffold sate Raimond, Bishop of Orvietto, in his robes

of state. On the benches round him you saw all the marked personages of

Rome--the judges, the men of letters, the nobles, from the lofty rank

of the Savelli to the inferior grade of a Raselli. The space beyond the

amphitheatre was filled with the people, who now poured fast in, stream

after stream: all the while rang, clear and loud, the great bell of the

church.

At length, as Adrian and Montreal seated themselves at a little distance

from Raimond, the bell suddenly ceased--the murmurs of the people were

stilled--the purple curtain was withdrawn, and Rienzi came forth with

slow and majestic steps. He came--but not in his usual sombre and plain

attire. Over his broad breast he wore a vest of dazzling whiteness--a

long robe, in the ample fashion of the toga, descended to his feet

and swept the floor. On his head he wore a fold of white cloth, in the

centre of which shone a golden crown. But the crown was divided, or

cloven, as it were, by the mystic ornament of a silver sword, which,

attracting the universal attention, testified at once that this strange

garb was worn, not from the vanity of display, but for the sake of

presenting to the concourse--in the person of the citizen--a type and

emblem of that state of the city on which he was about to descant.

“Faith,” whispered one of the old nobles to his neighbour, “the plebeian

assumes it bravely.”

“It will be rare sport,” said a second. “I trust the good man will put

some jests in his discourse.”

“What showman’s tricks are these?” said a third.

“He is certainly crazed!” said a fourth.

“How handsome he is!” said the women, mixed with the populace.

“This is a man who has learned the people by heart,” observed Montreal

to Adrian. “He knows he must speak to the eye, in order to win the mind:

a knave,--a wise knave!”

And now Rienzi had ascended the scaffold; and as he looked long and

steadfastly around the meeting, the high and thoughtful repose of

his majestic countenance, its deep and solemn gravity, hushed all the

murmurs, and made its effect equally felt by the sneering nobles as the

impatient populace.

“Signors of Rome,” said he, at length, “and ye, friends, and citizens,

you have heard why we are met together this day; and you, my Lord

Bishop of Orvietto,--and ye, fellow labourers with me in the field of

letters,--ye, too, are aware that it is upon some matter relative to

that ancient Rome, the rise and the decline of whose past power and

glories we have spent our youth in endeavouring to comprehend. But

this, believe me, is no vain enigma of erudition, useful but to the

studious,--referring but to the dead. Let the Past perish!--let darkness

shroud it!--let it sleep for ever over the crumbling temples and

desolate tombs of its forgotten sons,--if it cannot afford us, from

its disburied secrets, a guide for the Present and the Future. What, my

Lords, ye have thought that it was for the sake of antiquity alone that

we have wasted our nights and days in studying what antiquity can teach

us! You are mistaken; it is nothing to know what we have been, unless it

is with the desire of knowing that which we ought to be. Our ancestors

are mere dust and ashes, save when they speak to our posterity; and then

their voices resound, not from the earth below, but the heaven above.

There is an eloquence in Memory, because it is the nurse of Hope.

There is a sanctity in the Past, but only because of the chronicles it

retains,--chronicles of the progress of mankind,--stepping-stones in

civilisation, in liberty, and in knowledge. Our fathers forbid us to

recede,--they teach us what is our rightful heritage,--they bid us

reclaim, they bid us augment, that heritage,--preserve their virtues,

and avoid their errors. These are the true uses of the Past. Like the

sacred edifice in which we are,--it is a tomb upon which to rear a

temple. I see that you marvel at this long beginning; ye look to each

other--ye ask to what it tends. Behold this broad plate of iron; upon it

is graven an inscription but lately disinterred from the heaps of stone

and ruin, which--O shame to Rome!--were once the palaces of empire, and

the arches of triumphant power. The device in the centre of the table,

which you behold, conveys the act of the Roman Senators,--who are

conferring upon Vespasian the imperial authority. It is this inscription

which I have invited you to hear read! It specifies the very terms and

limits of the authority thus conferred. To the Emperor was

confided the power of making laws and alliances with whatsoever

nation,--of increasing, or of diminishing the limits of towns and

districts,--of--mark this, my Lords!--exalting men to the rank of dukes

and kings,--ay, and of deposing and degrading them;--of making cities,

and of unmaking: in short, of all the attributes of imperial power.

Yes, to that Emperor was confided this vast authority; but, by whom?

Heed--listen, I pray you--let not a word be lost;--by whom, I say? By

the Roman Senate! What was the Roman Senate? The Representative of the

Roman People!”

“I knew he would come to that!” said the smith, who stood at the door

with his fellows, but to whose ear, clear and distinct, rolled the

silver voice of Rienzi.

“Brave fellow! and this, too, in the hearing of the Lords!”

“Ay, you see what the people were! and we should never have known this

but for him.”

“Peace, fellows;” said the officer to those of the crowd, from whom came

these whispered sentences.

Rienzi continued.--“Yes, it is the people who intrusted this power--to

the people, therefore, it belongs! Did the haughty Emperor arrogate the

crown? Could he assume the authority of himself? Was it born with

him? Did he derive it, my Lord Barons, from the possession of towered

castles--of lofty lineage? No! all-powerful as he was, he had no right

to one atom of that power, save from the voice and trust of the Roman

people. Such, O my countrymen! such was even that day, when Liberty

was but the shadow of her former self,--such was the acknowledged

prerogative of your fathers! All power was the gift of the people. What

have ye to give now? Who, who, I say,--what single person, what petty

chief, asks you for the authority he assumes? His senate is his

sword; his chart of license is written, not with ink, but blood. The

people!--there is no people! Oh! would to God that we might disentomb

the spirit of the Past as easily as her records!”

“If I were your kinsman,” whispered Montreal to Adrian, “I would give

this man short breathing-time between his peroration and confession.”

“What is your Emperor?” continued Rienzi; “a stranger! What the great

head of your Church?--an exile! Ye are without your lawful chiefs; and

why? Because ye are not without your law-defying tyrants! The licence

of your nobles, their discords, their dissensions, have driven our Holy

Father from the heritage of St. Peter;--they have bathed your streets in

your own blood; they have wasted the wealth of your labours on private

quarrels and the maintenance of hireling ruffians! Your forces are

exhausted against yourselves. You have made a mockery of your country,

once the mistress of the world. You have steeped her lips in gall--ye

have set a crown of thorns upon her head! What, my Lords!” cried he,

turning sharply round towards the Savelli and Orsini, who, endeavouring

to shake off the thrill which the fiery eloquence of Rienzi had stricken

to their hearts, now, by contemptuous gestures and scornful smiles,

testified the displeasure they did not dare loudly to utter in the

presence of the Vicar and the people.--“What! even while I speak--not

the sanctity of this place restrains you! I am an humble man--a citizen

of Rome;--but I have this distinction: I have raised against myself

many foes and scoffers for that which I have done for Rome. I am hated,

because I love my country; I am despised, because I would exalt her. I

retaliate--I shall be avenged. Three traitors in your own palaces shall

betray you: their names are--Luxury, Envy, and Dissension!”

“There he had them on the hip!”

“Ha, ha! by the Holy Cross, that was good!”

“I would go to the hangman for such another keen stroke as that!”

“It is a shame if we are cowards, when one man is thus brave,” said the

smith.

“This is the man we have always wanted!”

“Silence!” proclaimed the officer.

“O Romans!” resumed Rienzi, passionately--“awake! I conjure you! Let

this memorial of your former power--your ancient liberties--sink deep

into your souls. In a propitious hour, if ye seize it,--in an evil one,

if ye suffer the golden opportunity to escape,--has this record of the

past been unfolded to your eyes. Recollect that the Jubilee approaches.”

The Bishop of Orvietto smiled, and bowed approvingly; the people, the

citizens, the inferior nobles, noted well those signs of encouragement;

and, to their minds, the Pope himself, in the person of his Vicar,

looked benignly on the daring of Rienzi.

“The Jubilee approaches,--the eyes of all Christendom will be directed

hither. Here, where, from all quarters of the globe, men come for peace,

shall they find discord?--seeking absolution, shall they perceive

but crime? In the centre of God’s dominion, shall they weep at your

weakness?--in the seat of the martyred saints, shall they shudder at

your vices?--in the fountain and source of Christ’s law, shall they

find all law unknown? You were the glory of the world--will you be its

by-word? You were its example--will you be its warning? Rise, while it

is yet time!--clear your roads from the bandits that infest them!--your

walls from the hirelings that they harbour! Banish these civil discords,

or the men--how proud, how great, soever--who maintain them! Pluck

the scales from the hand of Fraud!--the sword from the hand of

Violence!--the balance and the sword are the ancient attributes of

Justice!--restore them to her again! This be your high task,--these be

your great ends! Deem any man who opposes them a traitor to his country.

Gain a victory greater than those of the Caesars--a victory over

yourselves! Let the pilgrims of the world behold the resurrection of

Rome! Make one epoch of the Jubilee of Religion and the Restoration of

Law! Lay the sacrifice of your vanquished passions--the first-fruits of

your renovated liberties--upon the very altar that these walls contain!

and never! oh, never! since the world began, shall men have made a more

grateful offering to their God!”

So intense was the sensation these words created in the audience--so

breathless and overpowered did they leave the souls with they took by

storm--that Rienzi had descended the scaffold, and already disappeared

behind the curtain from which he had emerged, ere the crowd were fully

aware that he had ceased.

The singularity of this sudden apparition--robed in mysterious

splendour, and vanishing the moment its errand was fulfilled--gave

additional effect to the words it had uttered. The whole character of

that bold address became invested with a something preternatural and

inspired; to the minds of the vulgar, the mortal was converted into the

oracle; and, marvelling at the unhesitating courage with which their

idol had rebuked and conjured the haughty barons,--each of whom they

regarded in the light of sanctioned executioners, whose anger could be

made manifest at once by the gibbet or the axe,--the people could not

but superstitiously imagine that nothing less than authority from above

could have gifted their leader with such hardihood, and preserved him

from the danger it incurred. In fact, it was in this very courage of

Rienzi that his safety consisted; he was placed in those circumstances

where audacity is prudence. Had he been less bold, the nobles would have

been more severe; but so great a license of speech in an officer of the

Holy See, they naturally imagined, was not unauthorised by the assent of

the Pope, as well as by the approbation of the people. Those who did not

(like Stephen Colonna) despise words as wind, shrank back from the task

of punishing one whose voice might be the mere echo of the wishes of the

pontiff. The dissensions of the nobles among each other, were no less

favourable to Rienzi. He attacked a body, the members of which had no

union.

“It is not my duty to slay him!” said one.

“I am not the representative of the barons!” said another.

“If Stephen Colonna heeds him not, it would be absurd, as well as

dangerous, in a meaner man to make himself the champion of the order!”

said a third.

The Colonna smiled approval, when Rienzi denounced an Orsini--an Orsini

laughed aloud, when the eloquence burst over a Colonna. The lesser

nobles were well pleased to hear attacks upon both: while, on the other

hand, the Bishop, by the long impunity of Rienzi, had taken courage

to sanction the conduct of his fellow-officer. He affected, indeed, at

times, to blame the excess of his fervour, but it was always accompanied

by the praises of his honesty; and the approbation of the Pope’s Vicar

confirmed the impression of the nobles as to the approbation of the

Pope. Thus, from the very rashness of his enthusiasm had grown his

security and success.

Still, however, when the barons had a little recovered from the stupor

into which Rienzi had cast them, they looked round to each other; and

their looks confessed their sense of the insolence of the orator, and

the affront offered to themselves.

“Per fede!” quoth Reginaldo di Orsini, “this is past bearing,--the

plebeian has gone too far!”

“Look at the populace below! how they murmur and gape,--and how their

eyes sparkle--and what looks they bend at us!” said Luca di Savelli to

his mortal enemy, Castruccio Malatesta: the sense of a common danger

united in one moment, but only for a moment, the enmity of years.

“Diavolo!” muttered Raselli (Nina’s father) to a baron, equally poor,

“but the clerk has truth in his lips. ‘Tis a pity he is not noble.”

“What a clever brain marred!” said a Florentine merchant. “That man

might be something, if he were sufficiently rich.”

Adrian and Montreal were silent: the first seemed lost in thought,--the

last was watching the various effects produced upon the audience.

“Silence!” proclaimed the officers. “Silence, for my Lord Vicar.”

At this announcement, every eye turned to Raimond, who, rising with much

clerical importance, thus addressed the assembly:--

“Although, Barons and Citizens of Rome, my well-beloved flock, and

children,--I, no more than yourselves, anticipated the exact nature of

the address ye have just heard,--and, albeit, I cannot feel unalloyed

contentment at the manner, nor, I may say, at the whole matter of that

fervent exhortation--yet (laying great emphasis on the last word), I

cannot suffer you to depart without adding to the prayers of our

Holy Father’s servant, those, also, of his Holiness’s spiritual

representative. It is true! the Jubilee approaches! The Jubilee

approaches--and yet our roads, even to the gates of Rome, are infested

with murderous and godless ruffians! What pilgrim can venture across the

Apennines to worship at the altars of St. Peter? The Jubilee

approaches: what scandal shall it be to Rome if these shrines be without

pilgrims--if the timid recoil from, if the bold fall victims to, the

dangers of the way! Wherefore, I pray you all, citizens and chiefs

alike,--I pray you all to lay aside those unhappy dissensions which have

so long consumed the strength of our sacred city; and, uniting with each

other in the ties of amity and brotherhood, to form a blessed league

against the marauders of the road. I see amongst you, my Lords, many of

the boasts and pillars of the state; but, alas! I think with grief

and dismay on the causeless and idle hatred that has grown up between

you!--a scandal to our city, and reflecting, let me add, my Lords, no

honour on your faith as Christians, nor on your dignity as defenders of

the Church.”

Amongst the inferior nobles--along the seats of the judges and the men

of letters--through the vast concourse of the people--ran a loud murmur

of approbations at these words. The greater barons looked proudly, but

not contemptuously, at the countenance of the prelate, and preserved a

strict and unrevealing silence.

“In this holy spot,” continued the Bishop, “let me beseech you to bury

those fruitless animosities which have already cost enough of blood and

treasure; and let us quit these walls with one common determination to

evince our courage and display our chivalry only against our universal

foes;--those ruffians who lay waste our fields, and infest our public

ways,--the foes alike of the people we should protect, and the God whom

we should serve!”

The Bishop resumed his seat; the nobles looked at each other without

reply; the people began to whisper loudly among themselves; when, after

a short pause, Adrian di Castello rose.

“Pardon me, my Lords, and you, reverend Father, if I, inexperienced in

years and of little mark or dignity amongst you, presume to be the first

to embrace the proposal we have just heard. Willingly do I renounce all

ancient cause of enmity with any of my compeers. Fortunately for me,

my long absence from Rome has swept from my remembrance the feuds and

rivalries familiar to my early youth; and in this noble conclave I see

but one man (glancing at Martino di Porto, who sat sullenly looking

down) against whom I have, at any time, deemed it a duty to draw my

sword; the gage that I once cast to that noble is yet, I rejoice to

think, unredeemed. I withdraw it. Henceforth my only foes shall be the

foes of Rome!”

“Nobly spoken!” said the Bishop, aloud.

“And,” continued Adrian, casting down his glove amongst the nobles, “I

throw, my Lords, the gage, thus resumed, amongst you all, in challenge

to a wider rivalry, and a more noble field. I invite any man to vie with

me in the zeal that he shall show to restore tranquillity to our roads,

and order to our state. It is a contest in which, if I be vanquished

with reluctance, I will yield the prize without envy. In ten days from

this time, reverend Father, I will raise forty horsemen-at-arms, ready

to obey whatever orders shall be agreed upon for the security of the

Roman state. And you, O Romans, dismiss, I pray you, from your minds,

those eloquent invectives against your fellow-citizens which ye have

lately heard. All of us, of what rank soever, may have shared in the

excesses of these unhappy times; let us endeavour, not to avenge nor to

imitate, but to reform and to unite. And may the people hereafter find,

that the true boast of a patrician is, that his power the better enables

him to serve his country.”

“Brave words!” quoth the smith, sneeringly.

“If they were all like him!” said the smith’s neighbour.

“He has helped the nobles out of a dilemma,” said Pandulfo.

“He has shown grey wit under young hairs,” said an aged Malatesta.

“You have turned the tide, but not stemmed it, noble Adrian,” whispered

the ever-boding Montreal, as, amidst the murmurs of the general

approbation, the young Colonna resumed his seat.

“How mean you?” said Adrian.

“That your soft words, like all patrician conciliations, have come too

late.”

Not another noble stirred, though they felt, perhaps, disposed to join

in the general feeling of amnesty, and appeared, by signs and whispers,

to applaud the speech of Adrian. They were too habituated to the

ungracefulness of an unlettered pride, to bow themselves to address

conciliating language either to the people or their foes. And Raimond,

glancing round, and not willing that their unseemly silence should be

long remarked, rose at once, to give it the best construction in his

power.

“My son, thou hast spoken as a patriot and a Christian; by the approving

silence of your peers we all feel that they share your sentiments. Break

we up the meeting--its end is obtained. The manner of our proceeding

against the leagued robbers of the road requires maturer consideration

elsewhere. This day shall be an epoch in our history.”

“It shall,” quoth Cecco del Vecchio, gruffly, between his teeth.

“Children, my blessing upon you all!” concluded the Vicar, spreading his

arms.

And in a few minutes more the crowd poured from the church. The

different servitors and flag-bearers ranged themselves on the steps

without, each train anxious for their master’s precedence; and the

nobles, gravely collecting in small knots, in the which was no mixture

of rival blood, followed the crowd down the aisles. Soon rose again the

din, and the noise, and the wrangling, and the oaths, of the hostile

bands, as, with pain and labour, the Vicar’s officers marshalled them in

“order most disorderly.”

But so true were Montreal’s words to Adrian, that the populace already

half forgot the young noble’s generous appeal, and were only bitterly

commenting on the ungracious silence of his brother Lords. What, too, to

them was this crusade against the robbers of the road? They blamed

the good Bishop for not saying boldly to the nobles--“Ye are the first

robbers we must march against!” The popular discontents had gone far

beyond palliatives; they had arrived at that point when the people

longed less for reform than change. There are times when a revolution

cannot be warded off; it must come--come alike by resistance or

by concession. Wo to that race in which a revolution produces no

fruits!--in which the thunderbolt smites the high place, but does

not purify the air! To suffer in vain is often the lot of the

noblest individuals; but when a People suffer in vain, let them curse

themselves!

Chapter 2.IV. The Ambitious Citizen, and the Ambitious Soldier.

The Bishop of Orvietto lingered last, to confer with Rienzi, who awaited

him in the recesses of the Lateran. Raimond had the penetration not

to be seduced into believing that the late scene could effect any

reformation amongst the nobles, heal their divisions, or lead them

actively against the infestors of the Campagna. But, as he detailed to

Rienzi all that had occurred subsequent to the departure of that hero of

the scene, he concluded with saying:--

“You will perceive from this, one good result will be produced: the

first armed dissension--the first fray among the nobles--will seem like

a breach of promise; and, to the people and to the Pope, a reasonable

excuse for despairing of all amendment amongst the Barons,--an excuse

which will sanction the efforts of the first, and the approval of the

last.”

“For such a fray we shall not long wait,” answered Rienzi.

“I believe the prophecy,” answered Raimond, smiling; “at present all

runs well. Go you with us homeward?”

“Nay, I think it better to tarry here till the crowd is entirely

dispersed; for if they were to see me, in their present excitement, they

might insist on some rash and hasty enterprise. Besides, my Lord,” added

Rienzi, “with an ignorant people, however honest and enthusiastic, this

rule must be rigidly observed--stale not your presence by custom. Never

may men like me, who have no external rank, appear amongst the crowd,

save on those occasions when the mind is itself a rank.”

“That is true, as you have no train,” answered Raimond, thinking of his

own well-liveried menials. “Adieu, then! we shall meet soon.”

“Ay, at Philippi, my Lord. Reverend Father, your blessing!”

It was some time subsequent to this conference that Rienzi quitted the

sacred edifice. As he stood on the steps of the church--now silent and

deserted--the hour that precedes the brief twilight of the South lent

its magic to the view. There he beheld the sweeping arches of the mighty

Aqueduct extending far along the scene, and backed by the distant and

purpled hills. Before--to the right--rose the gate which took its

Roman name from the Coelian Mount, at whose declivity it yet stands.

Beyond--from the height of the steps--he saw the villages scattered

through the grey Campagna, whitening in the sloped sun; and in the

furthest distance the mountain shadows began to darken over the roofs

of the ancient Tusculum, and the second Alban (The first Alba--the Alba

Longa--whose origin Fable ascribes to Ascanius, was destroyed by Tullus

Hostilius. The second Alba, or modern Albano, was erected on the plain

below the ancient town, a little before the time of Nero.) city, which

yet rises, in desolate neglect, above the vanished palaces of Pompey and

Domitian.

The Roman stood absorbed and motionless for some moments, gazing on the

scene, and inhaling the sweet balm of the mellow air. It was the soft

springtime--the season of flowers, and green leaves, and whispering

winds--the pastoral May of Italia’s poets: but hushed was the voice of

song on the banks of the Tiber--the reeds gave music no more. From the

sacred Mount in which Saturn held his home, the Dryad and the Nymph, and

Italy’s native Sylvan, were gone for ever. Rienzi’s original nature--its

enthusiasm--its veneration for the past--its love of the beautiful and

the great--that very attachment to the graces and pomp which give so

florid a character to the harsh realities of life, and which power

afterwards too luxuriantly developed; the exuberance of thoughts

and fancies, which poured itself from his lips in so brilliant and

inexhaustible a flood--all bespoke those intellectual and imaginative

biasses, which, in calmer times, might have raised him in literature to

a more indisputable eminence than that to which action can ever lead;

and something of such consciousness crossed his spirit at that moment.

“Happier had it been for me,” thought he, “had I never looked out from

my own heart upon the world. I had all within me that makes contentment

of the present, because I had that which can make me forget the present.

I had the power to re-people--to create: the legends and dreams of

old--the divine faculty of verse, in which the beautiful superfluities

of the heart can pour themselves--these were mine! Petrarch chose

wisely for himself! To address the world, but from without the world;

to persuade--to excite--to command,--for these are the aim and glory

of ambition;--but to shun its tumult, and its toil! His the quiet cell

which he fills with the shapes of beauty--the solitude, from which he

can banish the evil times whereon we are fallen, but in which he can

dream back the great hearts and the glorious epochs of the past.

For me--to what cares I am wedded! to what labours I am bound! what

instruments I must use! what disguises I must assume! to tricks and

artifice I must bow my pride! base are my enemies--uncertain my friends!

and verily, in this struggle with blinded and mean men, the soul itself

becomes warped and dwarfish. Patient and darkling, the Means creep

through caves and the soiling mire, to gain at last the light which is

the End.”

In these reflections there was a truth, the whole gloom and sadness of

which the Roman had not yet experienced. However august be the object

we propose to ourselves, every less worthy path we take to insure it

distorts the mental sight of our ambition; and the means, by degrees,

abase the end to their own standard. This is the true misfortune of a

man nobler than his age--that the instruments he must use soil himself:

half he reforms his times; but half, too, the times will corrupt the

reformer. His own craft undermines his safety;--the people, whom he

himself accustoms to a false excitement, perpetually crave it; and when

their ruler ceases to seduce their fancy, he falls their victim. The

reform he makes by these means is hollow and momentary--it is swept away

with himself: it was but the trick--the show--the wasted genius of a

conjuror: the curtain falls--the magic is over--the cup and balls are

kicked aside. Better one slow step in enlightenment,--which being made

by the reason of a whole people, cannot recede,--than these sudden

flashes in the depth of the general night, which the darkness, by

contrast doubly dark, swallows up everlastingly again!

As, slowly and musingly, Rienzi turned to quit the church, he felt a

light touch upon his shoulder.

“Fair evening to you, Sir Scholar,” said a frank voice.

“To you, I return the courtesy,” answered Rienzi, gazing upon the person

who thus suddenly accosted him, and in whose white cross and martial

bearing the reader recognises the Knight of St. John.

“You know me not, I think?” said Montreal; “but that matters little,

we may easily commence our acquaintance: for me, indeed, I am fortunate

enough to have made myself already acquainted with you.”

“Possibly we have met elsewhere, at the house of one of those nobles to

whose rank you seem to belong?”

“Belong! no, not exactly!” returned Montreal, proudly. “Highborn and

great as your magnates deem themselves, I would not, while the mountains

can yield one free spot for my footstep, change my place in the world’s

many grades for theirs. To the brave, there is but one sort of plebeian,

and that is the coward. But you, sage Rienzi,” continued the Knight, in

a gayer tone, “I have seen in more stirring scenes than the hall of a

Roman Baron.”

Rienzi glanced keenly at Montreal, who met his eye with an open brow.

“Yes!” resumed the Knight--“but let us walk on; suffer me for a few

moments to be your companion. Yes! I have listened to you--the other

eve, when you addressed the populace, and today, when you rebuked the

nobles; and at midnight, too, not long since, when (your ear, fair

Sir!--lower, it is a secret!)--at midnight, too, when you administered

the oath of brotherhood to the bold conspirators, on the ruined

Aventine!”

As he concluded, the Knight drew himself aside to watch, upon Rienzi’s

countenance, the effect which his words might produce.

A slight tremor passed over the frame of the conspirator--for so, unless

the conspiracy succeed, would Rienzi be termed, by others than Montreal:

he turned abruptly round to confront the Knight, and placed his hand

involuntarily on his sword, but presently relinquished the grasp.

“Ha!” said the Roman, slowly, “if this be true, fall Rome! There is

treason even among the free!”

“No treason, brave Sir!” answered Montreal; “I possess thy secret--but

none have betrayed it to me.”

“And is it as friend or foe that thou hast learned it?”

“That as it may be,” returned Montreal, carelessly. “Enough, at present,

that I could send thee to the gibbet, if I said but the word,--to show

my power to be thy foe; enough, that I have not done it, to prove my

disposition to be thy friend.”

“Thou mistakest, stranger! that man does not live who could shed my

blood in the streets of Rome! The gibbet! Little dost thou know of the

power which surrounds Rienzi.”

These words were said with some scorn and bitterness; but, after a

moment’s pause, Rienzi resumed, more calmly:--

“By the cross on thy mantle, thou belongest to one of the proudest

orders of knighthood: thou art a foreigner, and a cavalier. What

generous sympathies can convert thee into a friend of the Roman people?”

“Cola di Rienzi,” returned Montreal, “the sympathies that unite us are

those which unite all men who, by their own efforts, rise above the

herd. True, I was born noble--but powerless and poor: at my beck now

move, from city to city, the armed instruments of authority: my breath

is the law of thousands. This empire I have not inherited; I won it by a

cool brain and a fearless arm. Know me for Walter de Montreal; is it

not a name that speaks a spirit kindred to thine own? Is not ambition

a common sentiment between us? I do not marshal soldiers for gain only,

though men have termed me avaricious--nor butcher peasants for the

love of blood, though men have called me cruel. Arms and wealth are

the sinews of power; it is power that I desire;--thou, bold Rienzi,

strugglest thou not for the same? Is it the rank breath of the

garlic-chewing mob--is it the whispered envy of schoolmen--is it the

hollow mouthing of boys who call thee patriot and freeman, words to

trick the ear--that will content thee? These are but thy instruments to

power. Have I spoken truly?”

Whatever distaste Rienzi might conceive at this speech he masked

effectually. “Certes,” said he, “it would be in vain, renowned Captain,

to deny that I seek but that power of which thou speakest. But what

union can there be between the ambition of a Roman citizen and the

leader of paid armies that take their cause only according to their

hire--today, fight for liberty in Florence--tomorrow, for tyranny in

Bologna? Pardon my frankness; for in this age that is deemed no disgrace

which I impute to thy armies. Valour and generalship are held to

consecrate any cause they distinguish; and he who is the master of

princes, may be well honoured by them as their equal.”

“We are entering into a less deserted quarter of the town,” said the

Knight; “is there no secret place--no Aventine--in this direction, where

we can confer?”

“Hush!” replied Rienzi, cautiously looking round. “I thank thee, noble

Montreal, for the hint; nor may it be well for us to be seen together.

Wilt thou deign to follow me to my home, by the Palatine Bridge? (The

picturesque ruins shown at this day as having once been the habitation

of the celebrated Cola di Rienzi, were long asserted by the antiquarians

to have belonged to another Cola or Nicola. I believe, however, that the

dispute has been lately decided: and, indeed, no one but an antiquary,

and that a Roman one, could suppose that there were two Colas to

whom the inscription on the house would apply.) there we can converse

undisturbed and secure.”

“Be it so,” said Montreal, falling back.

With a quick and hurried step, Rienzi passed through the town, in which,

wherever he was discovered, the scattered citizens saluted him with

marked respect; and, turning through a labyrinth of dark alleys, as

if to shun the more public thoroughfares, arrived at length at a broad

space near the river. The first stars of night shone down on the

ancient temple of Fortuna Virilis, which the chances of Time had

already converted into the Church of St. Mary of Egypt; and facing the

twice-hallowed edifice stood the house of Rienzi.

“It is a fair omen to have my mansion facing the ancient Temple of

Fortune,” said Rienzi, smiling, as Montreal followed the Roman into the

chamber I have already described.

“Yet Valour need never pray to Fortune,” said the Knight; “the first

commands the last.”

Long was the conference between these two men, the most enterprising of

their age. Meanwhile, let me make the reader somewhat better acquainted

with the character and designs of Montreal, than the hurry of events has

yet permitted him to become.

Walter de Montreal, generally known in the chronicles of Italy by the

designation of Fra Moreale, had passed into Italy--a bold adventurer,

worthy to become a successor of those roving Normans (from one of the

most eminent of whom, by the mother’s side, he claimed descent) who

had formerly played so strange a part in the chivalric errantry of

Europe,--realizing the fables of Amadis and Palmerin--(each knight,

in himself a host), winning territories and oversetting thrones;

acknowledging no laws save those of knighthood; never confounding

themselves with the tribe amongst which they settled; incapable of

becoming citizens, and scarcely contented with aspiring to be kings.

At that time, Italy was the India of all those well-born and penniless

adventurers who, like Montreal, had inflamed their imagination by the

ballads and legends of the Roberts and the Godfreys of old; who had

trained themselves from youth to manage the barb, and bear, through the

heats of summer, the weight of arms; and who, passing into am effeminate

and distracted land, had only to exhibit bravery in order to command

wealth. It was considered no disgrace for some powerful chieftain to

collect together a band of these hardy aliens,--to subsist amidst the

mountains on booty and pillage,--to make war upon tyrant or republic, as

interest suggested, and to sell, at enormous stipends, the immunities

of peace. Sometimes they hired themselves to one state to protect it

against the other; and the next year beheld them in the field against

their former employers. These bands of Northern stipendiaries assumed,

therefore, a civil, as well as a military, importance; they were as

indispensable to the safety of one state as they were destructive to the

security of all. But five years before the present date, the Florentine

Republic had hired the services of a celebrated leader of these

foreign soldiers,--Gualtier, duke of Athens. By acclamation, the people

themselves had elected that warrior to the state of prince, or tyrant,

of their state; before the year was completed, they revolted against his

cruelties, or rather against his exactions,--for, despite all the boasts

of their historians, they felt an attack on their purses more deeply

than an assault on their liberties,--they had chased him from their

city, and once more proclaimed themselves a Republic. The bravest, and

most favoured of the soldiers of the Duke of Athens had been Walter de

Montreal; he had shared the rise and the downfall of his chief. Amongst

popular commotions, the acute and observant mind of the Knight of St.

John had learned no mean civil experience; he had learned to sound a

people--to know how far they would endure--to construe the signs of

revolution--to be a reader of the times. After the downfall of the Duke

of Athens, as a Free Companion, in other words a Freebooter, Montreal

had augmented under the fierce Werner his riches and his renown. At

present without employment worthy his spirit of enterprise and intrigue,

the disordered and chiefless state of Rome had attracted him thither. In

the league he had proposed to Colonna--in the suggestions he had made

to the vanity of that Signor--his own object was to render his services

indispensable--to constitute himself the head of the soldiery whom his

proposed designs would render necessary to the ambition of the Colonna,

could it be excited--and, in the vastness of his hardy genius for

enterprise, he probably foresaw that the command of such a force would

be, in reality, the command of Rome;--a counter-revolution might

easily unseat the Colonna and elect himself to the principality. It

had sometimes been the custom of Roman, as of other Italian, States, to

prefer for a chief magistrate, under the title of Podesta, a foreigner

to a native. And Montreal hoped that he might possibly become to Rome

what the Duke of Athens had been to Florence--an ambition he knew well

enough to be above the gentleman of Provence, but not above the leader

of an army. But, as we have already seen, his sagacity perceived at once

that he could not move the aged head of the patricians to those hardy

and perilous measures which were necessary to the attainment of supreme

power. Contented with his present station, and taught moderation by his

age and his past reverses, Stephen Colonna was not the man to risk a

scaffold from the hope to gain a throne. The contempt which the old

patrician professed for the people, and their idol, also taught the

deep-thinking Montreal that, if the Colonna possessed not the ambition,

neither did he possess the policy, requisite for empire. The Knight

found his caution against Rienzi in vain, and he turned to Rienzi

himself. Little cared the Knight of St. John which party were

uppermost--prince or people--so that his own objects were attained; in

fact, he had studied the humours of a people, not in order to serve, but

to rule them; and, believing all men actuated by a similar ambition, he

imagined that, whether a demagogue or a patrician reigned, the people

were equally to be victims, and that the cry of “Order” on the one hand,

or of “Liberty” on the other, was but the mere pretext by which the

energy of one man sought to justify his ambition over the herd. Deeming

himself one of the most honourable spirits of his age, he believed in

no honour which he was unable to feel; and, sceptic in virtue, was

therefore credulous of vice.

But the boldness of his own nature inclined him, perhaps, rather to

the adventurous Rienzi than to the self-complacent Colonna; and he

considered that to the safety of the first he and his armed minions

might be even more necessary than to that of the last. At present

his main object was to learn from Rienzi the exact strength which he

possessed, and how far he was prepared for any actual revolt.

The acute Roman took care, on the one hand, how he betrayed to the

Knight more than he yet knew, or he disgusted him by apparent reserve on

the other. Crafty as Montreal was, he possessed not that wonderful art

of mastering others which was so preeminently the gift of the eloquent

and profound Rienzi, and the difference between the grades of their

intellect was visible in their present conference.

“I see,” said Rienzi, “that amidst all the events which have lately

smiled upon my ambition, none is so favourable as that which assures

me of your countenance and friendship. In truth, I require some

armed alliance. Would you believe it, our friends, so bold in private

meetings, yet shrink from a public explosion. They fear not the

patricians, but the soldiery of the patricians; for it is the remarkable

feature in the Italian courage, that they have no terror for each other,

but the casque and sword of a foreign hireling make them quail like

deer.”

“They will welcome gladly, then, the assurance that such hirelings shall

be in their service--not against them; and as much as you desire for the

revolution, so many shall you receive.”

“But the pay and the conditions,” said Rienzi, with his dry, sarcastic

smile. “How shall we arrange the first, and what shall we hold to be the

second?”

“That is an affair easily concluded,” replied Montreal. “For me, to

tell you frankly, the glory and excitement of so great a revulsion would

alone suffice. I like to feel myself necessary to the completion of high

events. For my men it is otherwise. Your first act will be to seize the

revenues of the state. Well, whatever they amount to, the product of

the first year, great or small, shall be divided amongst us. You the one

half, I and my men the other half.”

“It is much,” said Rienzi, gravely, and as if in calculation,--“but Rome

cannot purchase her liberties too dearly. So be it then decided.”

“Amen!--and now, then, what is your force? for these eighty or a hundred

signors of the Aventine,--worthy men, doubtless,--scarce suffice for a

revolt!”

Gazing cautiously round the room, the Roman placed his hand on

Montreal’s arm--

“Between you and me, it requires time to cement it. We shall be unable

to stir these five weeks. I have too rashly anticipated the period. The

corn is indeed cut, but I must now, by private adjuration and address,

bind up the scattered sheaves.”

“Five weeks,” repeated Montreal; “that is far longer than I

anticipated.”

“What I desire,” continued Rienzi, fixing his searching eyes upon

Montreal, “is, that, in the meanwhile, we should preserve a profound

calm,--we should remove every suspicion. I shall bury myself in my

studies, and convoke no more meetings.”

“Well--”

“And for yourself, noble Knight, might I venture to dictate, I would

pray you to mix with the nobles--to profess for me and for the people

the profoundest contempt--and to contribute to rock them yet more in the

cradle of their false security. Meanwhile, you could quietly withdraw as

many of the armed mercenaries as you influence from Rome, and leave the

nobles without their only defenders. Collecting these hardy warriors in

the recesses of the mountains, a day’s march from hence, we may be able

to summon them at need, and they shall appear at our gates, and in the

midst of our rising--hailed as deliverers by the nobles, but in reality

allies with the people. In the confusion and despair of our enemies at

discovering their mistake, they will fly from the city.”

“And its revenues and its empire will become the appanage of the hardy

soldier and the intriguing demagogue!” cried Montreal, with a laugh.

“Sir Knight, the division shall be equal.”

“Agreed!”

“And now, noble Montreal, a flask of our best vintage!” said Rienzi,

changing his tone.

“You know the Provencals,” answered Montreal, gaily.

The wine was brought, the conversation became free and familiar, and

Montreal, whose craft was acquired, and whose frankness was natural,

unwittingly committed his secret projects and ambition more nakedly to

Rienzi than he had designed to do. They parted apparently the best of

friends.

“By the way,” said Rienzi, as they drained the last goblet. “Stephen

Colonna betakes him to Corneto, with a convoy of corn, on the 19th.

Will it not be as well if you join him? You can take that opportunity to

whisper discontent to the mercenaries that accompany him on his mission,

and induce them to our plan.”

“I thought of that before,” returned Montreal; “it shall be done. For

the present, farewell!”

“‘His barb, and his sword,

And his lady, the peerless,

Are all that are prized

By Orlando the fearless.

“‘Success to the Norman,

The darling of story;

His glory is pleasure--

His pleasure is glory.’”

Chanting this rude ditty as he resumed his mantle, the Knight waved his

hand to Rienzi, and departed.

Rienzi watched the receding form of his guest with an expression of hate

and fear upon his countenance. “Give that man the power,” he muttered,

“and he may be a second Totila. (Innocent VI., some years afterwards,

proclaimed Montreal to be worse than Totila.) Methinks I see, in his

griping and ferocious nature,--through all the gloss of its gaiety and

knightly grace,--the very personification of our old Gothic foes. I

trust I have lulled him! Verily, two suns could no more blaze in one

hemisphere, than Walter de Montreal and Cola di Rienzi live in the same

city. The star-seers tell us that we feel a secret and uncontrollable

antipathy to those whose astral influences destine them to work us evil;

such antipathy do I feel for yon fair-faced homicide. Cross not my path,

Montreal!--cross not my path!”

With this soliloquy Rienzi turned within, and, retiring to his

apartment, was seen no more that night.

Chapter 2.V. The Procession of the Barons.--The Beginning of the End.

It was the morning of the 19th of May, the air was brisk and clear,

and the sun, which had just risen, shone cheerily upon the glittering

casques and spears of a gallant procession of armed horsemen, sweeping

through the long and principal street of Rome. The neighing of the

horses, the ringing of the hoofs, the dazzle of the armour, and the

tossing to and fro of the standards, adorned with the proud insignia of

the Colonna, presented one of the gay and brilliant spectacles peculiar

to the middle ages.

At the head of the troop, on a stout palfrey, rode Stephen Colonna.

At his right was the Knight of Provence, curbing, with an easy hand,

a slight, but fiery steed of the Arab race: behind him followed two

squires, the one leading his war-horse, the other bearing his lance and

helmet. At the left of Stephen Colonna rode Adrian, grave and silent,

and replying only by monosyllables to the gay bavardage of the Knight

of Provence. A considerable number of the flower of the Roman nobles

followed the old Baron; and the train was closed by a serried troop of

foreign horsemen, completely armed.

There was no crowd in the street,--the citizens looked with seeming

apathy at the procession from their half-closed shops.

“Have these Romans no passion for shows?” asked Montreal; “if they could

be more easily amused they would be more easily governed.”

“Oh, Rienzi, and such buffoons, amuse them. We do better,--we terrify!”

replied Stephen.

“What sings the troubadour, Lord Adrian?” said Montreal.

“‘Smiles, false smiles, should form the school

For those who rise, and those who rule:

The brave they trick, and fair subdue,

Kings deceive, the States undo.

Smiles, false smiles!

“‘Frowns, true frowns, ourselves betray,

The brave arouse, the fair dismay,

Sting the pride, which blood must heal,

Mix the bowl, and point the steel.

Frowns, true frowns!’

“The lay is of France, Signor; yet methinks it brings its wisdom from

Italy;--for the serpent smile is your countrymen’s proper distinction,

and the frown ill becomes them.”

“Sir Knight,” replied Adrian, sharply, and incensed at the taunt, “you

Foreigners have taught us how to frown:--a virtue sometimes.”

“But not wisdom, unless the hand could maintain what the brow menaced,”

returned Montreal, with haughtiness; for he had much of the Franc

vivacity which often overcame his prudence; and he had conceived a

secret pique against Adrian since their interview at Stephen’s palace.

“Sir Knight,” answered Adrian, colouring, “our conversation may lead to

warmer words than I would desire to have with one who has rendered me so

gallant a service.”

“Nay, then, let us go back to the troubadours,” said Montreal,

indifferently. “Forgive me if I do not think highly, in general, of

Italian honour, or Italian valour; your valour I acknowledge, for I have

witnessed it, and valour and honour go together,--let that suffice!”

As Adrian was about to answer, his eye fell suddenly on the burly form

of Cecco del Vecchio, who was leaning his bare and brawny arms over his

anvil, and gazing, with a smile, upon the group. There was something in

that smile which turned the current of Adrian’s thoughts, and which he

could not contemplate without an unaccountable misgiving.

“A strong villain, that,” said Montreal, also eyeing the smith. “I

should like to enlist him. Fellow!” cried he, aloud, “you have an arm

that were as fit to wield the sword as to fashion it. Desert your anvil,

and follow the fortunes of Fra Moreale!”

The smith nodded his head. “Signor Cavalier,” said he, gravely, “we poor

men have no passion for war; we want not to kill others--we desire only

ourselves to live,--if you will let us!”

“By the Holy Mother, a slavish answer! But you Romans--”

“Are slaves!” interrupted the smith, turning away to the interior of his

forge.

“The dog is mutinous!” said the old Colonna. And as the band swept on,

the rude foreigners, encouraged by their leaders, had each some taunt

or jest, uttered in a barbarous attempt at the southern patois, for the

lazy giant, as he again appeared in front of his forge, leaning on his

anvil as before, and betraying no sign of attention to his insultors,

save by a heightened glow of his swarthy visage;--and so the gallant

procession passed through the streets, and quitted the Eternal City.

There was a long interval of deep silence--of general calm--throughout

the whole of Rome: the shops were still but half-opened; no man betook

himself to his business; it was like the commencement of some holyday,

when indolence precedes enjoyment.

About noon, a few small knots of men might be seen scattered about the

streets, whispering to each other, but soon dispersing; and every now

and then, a single passenger, generally habited in the long robes used

by the men of letters, or in the more sombre garb of monks, passed

hurriedly up the street towards the Church of St. Mary of Egypt, once

the Temple of Fortune. Then, again, all was solitary and deserted.

Suddenly, there was heard the sound of a single trumpet! It swelled--it

gathered on the ear. Cecco del Vecchio looked up from his anvil! A

solitary horseman paced slowly by the forge, and wound a long loud blast

of the trumpet suspended round his neck, as he passed through the middle

of the street. Then might you see a crowd, suddenly, and as by magic,

appear emerging from every corner; the street became thronged with

multitudes; but it was only by the tramp of their feet, and an

indistinct and low murmur, that they broke the silence. Again

the horseman wound his trump, and when the note ceased, he cried

aloud--“Friends and Romans! tomorrow, at dawn of day, let each man find

himself unarmed before the Church of St. Angelo. Cola di Rienzi convenes

the Romans to provide for the good state of Rome.” A shout, that seemed

to shake the bases of the seven hills, broke forth at the end of

this brief exhortation; the horseman rode slowly on, and the crowd

followed.--This was the commencement of the Revolution!

Chapter 2.VI. The Conspirator Becomes the Magistrate.

At midnight, when the rest of the city seemed hushed in rest, lights

were streaming from the windows of the Church of St. Angelo. Breaking

from its echoing aisles, the long and solemn notes of sacred music

stole at frequent intervals upon the air. Rienzi was praying within the

church; thirty masses consumed the hours from night till morn, and all

the sanction of religion was invoked to consecrate the enterprise of

liberty. (In fact, I apprehend that if ever the life of Cola di Rienzi

shall be written by a hand worthy of the task, it will be shown that a

strong religious feeling was blended with the political enthusiasm of

the people,--the religious feeling of a premature and crude reformation,

the legacy of Arnold of Brescia. It was not, however, one excited

against the priests, but favoured by them. The principal conventual

orders declared for the Revolution.) The sun had long risen, and the

crowd had long been assembled before the church door, and in vast

streams along every street that led to it,--when the bell of the

church tolled out long and merrily; and as it ceased, the voices of the

choristers within chanted the following hymn, in which were somewhat

strikingly, though barbarously, blended, the spirit of the classic

patriotism with the fervour of religious zeal:--

The Roman Hymn of Liberty.

Let the mountains exult around!

(“Exultent in circuito Vestro Montes,” &c.--Let the

mountains exult around! So begins Rienzi’s letter to the

Senate and Roman people: preserved by Hocsemius.)

On her seven-hill’d throne renown’d,

Once more old Rome is crown’d!

Jubilate!

Sing out, O Vale and Wave!

Look up from each laurell’d grave,

Bright dust of the deathless brave!

Jubilate!

Pale Vision, what art thou?--Lo,

From Time’s dark deeps,

Like a Wind, It sweeps,

Like a Wind, when the tempests blow:

A shadowy form--as a giant ghost--

It stands in the midst of the armed host!

The dead man’s shroud on Its awful limbs;

And the gloom of Its presence the daylight dims:

And the trembling world looks on aghast--

All hail to the SOUL OF THE MIGHTY PAST!

Hail! all hail!

As we speak--as we hallow--It moves, It breathes;

From its clouded crest bud the laurel wreaths--

As a Sun that leaps up from the arms of Night,

The shadow takes shape, and the gloom takes light.

Hail! all hail!

The Soul of the Past, again

To its ancient home,

In the hearts of Rome,

Hath come to resume its reign!

O Fame, with a prophet’s voice,

Bid the ends of the Earth rejoice!

Wherever the Proud are Strong,

And Right is oppress’d by Wrong;--

Wherever the day dim shines

Through the cell where the captive pines;--

Go forth, with a trumpet’s sound!

And tell to the Nations round--

On the Hills which the Heroes trod--

In the shrines of the Saints of God--

In the Caesars’ hall, and the Martyrs’ prison--

That the slumber is broke, and the Sleeper arisen!

That the reign of the Goth and the Vandal is o’er:

And Earth feels the tread of THE ROMAN once more!

As the hymn ended, the gate of the church opened; the crowd gave way on

either side, and, preceded by three of the young nobles of the inferior

order, bearing standards of allegorical design, depicting the triumph

of Liberty, Justice, and Concord, forth issued Rienzi, clad in complete

armour, the helmet alone excepted. His face was pale with watching and

intense excitement--but stern, grave, and solemnly composed; and its

expression so repelled any vociferous and vulgar burst of feeling, that

those who beheld it hushed the shout on their lips, and stilled, by a

simultaneous cry of reproof, the gratulations of the crowd behind.

Side by side with Rienzi moved Raimond, Bishop of Orvietto: and behind,

marching two by two, followed a hundred men-at-arms. In complete silence

the procession began its way, until, as it approached the Capitol, the

awe of the crowd gradually vanished, and thousands upon thousands of

voices rent the air with shouts of exultation and joy.

Arrived at the foot of the great staircase, which then made the

principal ascent to the square of the Capitol, the procession halted;

and as the crowd filled up that vast space in front--adorned and

hallowed by many of the most majestic columns of the temples of

old--Rienzi addressed the Populace, whom he had suddenly elevated into a

People.

He depicted forcibly the servitude and misery of the citizens--the

utter absence of all law--the want even of common security to life

and property. He declared that, undaunted by the peril he incurred, he

devoted his life to the regeneration of their common country; and he

solemnly appealed to the people to assist the enterprise, and at once

to sanction and consolidate the Revolution by an established code of law

and a Constitutional Assembly. He then ordered the chart and outline of

the Constitution he proposed, to be read by the Herald to the multitude.

It created,--or rather revived, with new privileges and powers,--a

Representative Assembly of Councillors. It proclaimed, as its first law,

one that seems simple enough to our happier times, but never hitherto

executed at Rome: Every wilful homicide, of whatever rank, was to be

punished by death. It enacted, that no private noble or citizen should

be suffered to maintain fortifications and garrisons in the city or the

country; that the gates and bridges of the State should be under the

control of whomsoever should be elected Chief Magistrate. It forbade all

harbour of brigands, mercenaries, and robbers, on payment of a thousand

marks of silver; and it made the Barons who possessed the neighbouring

territories responsible for the safety of the roads, and the transport

of merchandise. It took under the protection of the State the widow and

the orphan. It appointed, in each of the quarters of the city, an armed

militia, whom the tolling of the bell of the Capitol, at any hour, was

to assemble to the protection of the State. It ordained, that in each

harbour of the coast, a vessel should be stationed, for the safeguard

of commerce. It decreed the sum of one hundred florins to the heirs of

every man who died in the defence of Rome; and it devoted the public

revenues to the service and protection of the State.

Such, moderate at once and effectual, was the outline of the New

Constitution; and it may amuse the reader to consider how great must

have been the previous disorders of the city, when the common and

elementary provisions of civilisation and security made the character of

the code proposed, and the limit of a popular revolution.

The most rapturous shouts followed this sketch of the New Constitution:

and, amidst the clamour, up rose the huge form of Cecco del Vecchio.

Despite his condition, he was a man of great importance at the present

crisis: his zeal and his courage, and, perhaps, still more, his brute

passion and stubborn prejudice, had made him popular. The lower order of

mechanics looked to him as their head and representative; out, then, he

spake loud and fearlessly,--speaking well, because his mind was full of

what he had to say.

“Countrymen and Citizens!--This New Constitution meets with your

approbation--so it ought. But what are good laws, if we do not have

good men to execute them? Who can execute a law so well as the man

who designs it? If you ask me to give you a notion how to make a good

shield, and my notion pleases you, would you ask me, or another smith,

to make it for you? If you ask another, he may make a good shield,

but it would not be the same as that which I should have made, and the

description of which contented you. Cola di Rienzi has proposed a Code

of Law that shall be our shield. Who should see that the shield become

what he proposes, but Cola di Rienzi? Romans! I suggest that Cola di

Rienzi be intrusted by the people with the authority, by whatsoever name

he pleases, of carrying the New Constitution into effect;--and whatever

be the means, we, the People, will bear him harmless.”

“Long life to Rienzi!--long live Cecco del Vecchio! He hath spoken

well!--none but the Law-maker shall be the Governor!”

Such were the acclamations which greeted the ambitious heart of the

Scholar. The voice of the people invested him with the supreme power. He

had created a Commonwealth--to become, if he desired it, a Despot!

Chapter 2.VII. Looking after the Halter when the Mare is Stolen.

While such were the events at Rome, a servitor of Stephen Colonna was

already on his way to Corneto. The astonishment with which the old Baron

received the intelligence may be easily imagined. He lost not a moment

in convening his troop; and, while in all the bustle of departure, the

Knight of St. John abruptly entered his presence. His mien had lost its

usual frank composure.

“How is this?” said he, hastily; “a revolt?--Rienzi sovereign of

Rome?--can the news be believed?”

“It is too true!” said Colonna, with a bitter smile. “Where shall we

hang him on our return?”

“Talk not so wildly, Sir Baron,” replied Montreal, discourteously;

“Rienzi is stronger than you think for. I know what men are, and you

only know what noblemen are! Where is your kinsman, Adrian?”

“He is here, noble Montreal,” said Stephen, shrugging his shoulders,

with a half-disdainful smile at the rebuke, which he thought it more

prudent not to resent; “he is here!--see him enter!”

“You have heard the news?” exclaimed Montreal.

“I have.”

“And despise the revolution?”

“I fear it!”

“Then you have some sense in you. But this is none of my affair: I

will not interrupt your consultations. Adieu for the present!” and, ere

Stephen could prevent him, the Knight had quitted the chamber.

“What means this demagogue?” Montreal muttered to himself. “Would he

trick me?--has he got rid of my presence in order to monopolise all the

profit of the enterprise? I fear me so!--the cunning Roman! We northern

warriors could never compete with the intellect of these Italians but

for their cowardice. But what shall be done? I have already bid Rodolf

communicate with the brigands, and they are on the eve of departure from

their present lord. Well! let it be so! Better that I should first break

the power of the Barons, and then make my own terms, sword in hand, with

the plebeian. And if I fail in this,--sweet Adeline! I shall see thee

again!--that is some comfort!--and Louis of Hungary will bid high for

the arm and brain of Walter de Montreal. What, ho! Rodolf!” he

exclaimed aloud, as the sturdy form of the trooper, half-armed and

half-intoxicated, reeled along the courtyard. “Knave! art thou drunk at

this hour?”

“Drunk or sober,” answered Rodolf, bending low, “I am at thy bidding.”

“Well said!--are thy friends ripe for the saddle?”

“Eighty of them already tired of idleness and the dull air of Rome, will

fly wherever Sir Walter de Montreal wishes.”

“Hasten, then,--bid them mount; we go not hence with the Colonna--we

leave while they are yet talking! Bid my squires attend me!”

And when Stephen Colonna was settling himself on his palfrey, he heard,

for the first time, that the Knight of Provence, Rodolf the trooper, and

eighty of the stipendiaries, had already departed,--whither, none knew.

“To precede us to Rome! gallant barbarian!” said Colonna. “Sirs, on!”

Chapter 2.VIII. The Attack--the Retreat--the Election--and the Adhesion.

Arriving at Rome, the company of the Colonna found the gates barred, and

the walls manned. Stephen bade advance his trumpeters, with one of his

captains, imperiously to demand admittance.

“We have orders,” replied the chief of the town-guard, “to admit none

who bear arms, flags, or trumpets. Let the Lords Colonna dismiss their

train, and they are welcome.”

“Whose are these insolent mandates?” asked the captain.

“Those of the Lord Bishop of Orvietto and Cola di Rienzi, joint

protectors of the Buono Stato.” (Good Estate.)

The captain of the Colonna returned to his chief with these tidings. The

rage of Stephen was indescribable. “Go back,” he cried, as soon as

he could summon voice, “and say, that, if the gates are not forthwith

opened to me and mine, the blood of the plebeians be on their own head.

As for Raimond, Vicars of the Pope have high spiritual authority, none

temporal. Let him prescribe a fast, and he shall be obeyed; but, for

the rash Rienzi, say that Stephen Colonna will seek him in the Capitol

tomorrow, for the purpose of throwing him out of the highest window.”

These messages the envoy failed not to deliver.

The captain of the Romans was equally stern in his reply.

“Declare to your Lord,” said he, “that Rome holds him and his as rebels

and traitors; and that the moment you regain your troop, our archers

receive our command to draw their bows--in the name of the Pope, the

City, and the Liberator.”

This threat was executed to the letter; and ere the old Baron had time

to draw up his men in the best array, the gates were thrown open, and

a well-armed, if undisciplined, multitude poured forth, with fierce

shouts, clashing their arms, and advancing the azure banners of the

Roman State. So desperate their charge, and so great their numbers, that

the Barons, after a short and tumultuous conflict, were driven back,

and chased by their pursuers for more than a mile from the walls of the

city.

As soon as the Barons recovered their disorder and dismay, a hasty

council was held, at which various and contradictory opinions were

loudly urged. Some were for departing on the instant to Palestrina,

which belonged to the Colonna, and possessed an almost inaccessible

fortress. Others were for dispersing, and entering peaceably, and in

detached parties, through the other gates. Stephen Colonna--himself

incensed and disturbed from his usual self-command--was unable to

preserve his authority; Luca di Savelli, (The more correct orthography

were Luca di Savello, but the one in the text is preserved as more

familiar to the English reader.) a timid, though treacherous and subtle

man, already turned his horse’s head, and summoned his men to follow him

to his castle in Romagna, when the old Colonna bethought himself of a

method by which to keep his band from a disunion that he had the sense

to perceive would prove fatal to the common cause. He proposed that they

should at once repair to Palestrina, and there fortify themselves; while

one of the chiefs should be selected to enter Rome alone, and

apparently submissive, to examine the strength of Rienzi; and with the

discretionary power to resist if possible,--or to make the best terms he

could for the admission of the rest.

“And who,” asked Savelli, sneeringly, “will undertake this dangerous

mission? Who, unarmed and alone, will expose himself to the rage of the

fiercest populace of Italy, and the caprice of a demagogue in the first

flush of his power?”

The Barons and the Captains looked at each other in silence. Savelli

laughed.

Hitherto Adrian had taken no part in the conference, and but little in

the previous contest. He now came to the support of his kinsman.

“Signors!” said he, “I will undertake this mission,--but on mine own

account, independently of yours;--free to act as I may think best, for

the dignity of a Roman noble, and the interests of a Roman citizen; free

to raise my standard on mine own tower, or to yield fealty to the new

estate.”

“Well said!” cried the old Colonna, hastily. “Heaven forbid we should

enter Rome as foes, if to enter it as friends be yet allowed us! What

say ye, gentles?”

“A more worthy choice could not be selected,” said Savelli; “but I

should scarce deem it possible that a Colonna could think there was an

option between resistance and fealty to this upstart revolution.”

“Of that, Signor, I will judge for myself; if you demand an agent for

yourselves, choose another. I announce to ye frankly, that I have seen

enough of other states to think the recent condition of Rome demanded

some redress. Whether Rienzi and Raimond be worthy of the task they have

assumed, I know not.”

Savelli was silent. The old Colonna seized the word.

“To Palestrina, then!--are ye all agreed on this? At the worst, or at

the best, we should not be divided! On this condition alone I hazard the

safety of my kinsman!”

The Barons murmured a little among themselves;--the expediency of

Stephen’s proposition was evident, and they at length assented to it.

Adrian saw them depart, and then, attended only by his squire, slowly

rode towards a more distant entrance into the city. On arriving at the

gates, his name was demanded--he gave it freely.

“Enter, my Lord,” said the warder, “our orders were to admit all that

came unarmed and unattended. But to the Lord Adrian di Castello, alone,

we had a special injunction to give the honours due to a citizen and a

friend.”

Adrian, a little touched by this implied recollection of friendship, now

rode through a long line of armed citizens, who saluted him respectfully

as he passed, and, as he returned the salutation with courtesy, a loud

and approving shout followed his horse’s steps.

So, save by one attendant, alone, and in peace, the young patrician

proceeded leisurely through the long streets, empty and deserted,--for

nearly one half of the inhabitants were assembled at the walls, and

nearly the other half were engaged in a more peaceful duty,--until,

penetrating the interior, the wide and elevated space of the Capitol

broke upon his sight. The sun was slowly setting over an immense

multitude that overspread the spot, and high above a scaffold raised

in the centre, shone, to the western ray, the great Gonfalon of Rome,

studded with silver stars.

Adrian reined in his steed. “This,” thought he, “is scarcely the hour

thus publicly to confer with Rienzi; yet fain would I, mingled with the

crowd, judge how far his power is supported, and in what manner it is

borne.” Musing a little, he withdrew into one of the obscurer streets,

then wholly deserted, surrendered his horse to his squire, and,

borrowing of the latter his morion and long mantle, passed to one of

the more private entrances of the Capitol, and, enveloped in his cloak,

stood--one of the crowd--intent upon all that followed.

“And what,” he asked of a plainly dressed citizen, “is the cause of this

assembly?”

“Heard you not the proclamation?” returned the other in some surprise.

“Do you not know that the Council of the City and the Guilds of the

Artisans have passed a vote to proffer to Rienzi the title of king of

Rome?”

The Knight of the Emperor, to whom belonged that august dignity, drew

back in dismay.

“And,” resumed the citizen, “this assembly of all the lesser Barons,

Councillors, and Artificers, is convened to hear the answer.”

“Of course it will be assent?”

“I know not--there are strange rumours; hitherto the Liberator has

concealed his sentiments.”

At that instant a loud flourish of martial music announced the approach

of Rienzi. The crowd tumultuously divided, and presently, from the

Palace of the Capitol to the scaffold, passed Rienzi, still in complete

armour, save the helmet, and with him, in all the pomp of his episcopal

robes, Raimond of Orvietto.

As soon as Rienzi had ascended the platform, and was thus made visible

to the whole concourse, no words can suffice to paint the enthusiasm

of the scene--the shouts, the gestures, the tears, the sobs, the wild

laughter, in which the sympathy of those lively and susceptible children

of the South broke forth. The windows and balconies of the Palace were

thronged with the wives and daughters of the lesser Barons and more

opulent citizens; and Adrian, with a slight start, beheld amongst

them,--pale--agitated--tearful,--the lovely face of his Irene--a face

that even thus would have outshone all present, but for one by her side,

whose beauty the emotion of the hour only served to embellish. The dark,

large, and flashing eyes of Nina di Raselli, just bedewed, were fixed

proudly on the hero of her choice: and pride, even more than joy, gave a

richer carnation to her cheek, and the presence of a queen to her noble

and rounded form. The setting sun poured its full glory over the spot;

the bared heads--the animated faces of the crowd--the grey and vast mass

of the Capitol; and, not far from the side of Rienzi, it brought into

a strange and startling light the sculptured form of a colossal Lion of

Basalt, (The existent Capitol is very different from the building at

the time of Rienzi; and the reader must not suppose that the present

staircase, designed by Michael Angelo, at the base of which are two

marble lions, removed by Pius IV. from the Church of St. Stephen del

Cacco, was the staircase of the Lion of Basalt, which bears so stern a

connexion with the history of Rienzi. That mute witness of dark deeds is

no more.) which gave its name to a staircase leading to the Capitol.

It was an old Egyptian relic,--vast, worn, and grim; some symbol of a

vanished creed, to whose face the sculptor had imparted something of the

aspect of the human countenance. And this producing the effect

probably sought, gave at all times a mystic, preternatural, and fearful

expression to the stern features, and to that solemn and hushed repose,

which is so peculiarly the secret of Egyptian sculpture. The awe which

this colossal and frowning image was calculated to convey, was felt yet

more deeply by the vulgar, because “the Staircase of the Lion” was the

wonted place of the state executions, as of the state ceremonies.

And seldom did the stoutest citizen forget to cross himself, or feel

unchilled with a certain terror, whenever, passing by the place, he

caught, suddenly fixed upon him, the stony gaze and ominous grin of that

old monster from the cities of the Nile.

It was some minutes before the feelings of the assembly allowed

Rienzi to be heard. But when, at length, the last shout closed with a

simultaneous cry of “Long live Rienzi! Deliverer and King of Rome!” he

raised his hand impatiently, and the curiosity of the crowd procured a

sudden silence.

“Deliverer of Rome, my countrymen!” said he. “Yes! change not that

title--I am too ambitious to be a King! Preserve your obedience to your

Pontiff--your allegiance to your Emperor--but be faithful to your

own liberties. Ye have a right to your ancient constitution; but that

constitution needed not a king. Emulous of the name of Brutus, I am

above the titles of a Tarquin! Romans, awake! awake! be inspired with

a nobler love of liberty than that which, if it dethrones the tyrant of

today, would madly risk the danger of tyranny for tomorrow! Rome wants

still a liberator--never an usurper!--Take away yon bauble!”

There was a pause; the crowd were deeply affected--but they uttered no

shouts; they looked anxiously for a reply from their councillors, or

popular leaders.

“Signor,” said Pandulfo di Guido, who was one of the Caporioni, “your

answer is worthy of your fame. But, in order to enforce the law, Rome

must endow you with a legal title--if not that of King, deign to accept

that of Dictator or of Consul.”

“Long live the Consul Rienzi!” cried several voices.

Rienzi waved his hand for silence.

“Pandulfo di Guido! and you, honoured Councillors of Rome! such title is

at once too august for my merits, and too inapplicable to my functions.

I am one of the people--the people are my charge; the nobles can protect

themselves. Dictator and Consul are the appellations of patricians.

No,” he continued after a short pause, “if ye deem it necessary, for

the preservation of order, that your fellow-citizen should be intrusted

with a formal title and a recognised power, be it so: but let it be

such as may attest the nature of our new institutions, the wisdom of the

people, and the moderation of their leaders. Once, my countrymen, the

people elected, for the protectors of their rights and the guardians of

their freedom, certain officers responsible to the people,--chosen from

the people,--provident for the people. Their power was great, but it was

delegated: a dignity, but a trust. The name of these officers with that

of Tribune. Such is the title that conceded, not by clamour alone,

but in the full Parliament of the people, and accompanied by, such

Parliament, ruling with such Parliament,--such is the title I will

gratefully accept.”

(Gibbon and Sismondi alike, (neither of whom appears to have

consulted with much attention the original documents

preserved by Hocsemius,) say nothing of the Representative

Parliament, which it was almost Rienzi’s first public act to

institute or model. Six days from the memorable 19th of May,

he addressed the people of Viterbo in a letter yet extant.

He summons them to elect and send two syndics, or

ambassadors, to the general Parliament.)

The speech, the sentiments of Rienzi were rendered far more impressive

by a manner of earnest and deep sincerity; and some of the Romans,

despite their corruption, felt a momentary exultation in the forbearance

of their chief. “Long live the Tribune of Rome!” was shouted, but less

loud than the cry of “Live the King!” And the vulgar almost thought the

revolution was incomplete, because the loftier title was not assumed.

To a degenerate and embruted people, liberty seems too plain a thing, if

unadorned by the pomp of the very despotism they would dethrone. Revenge

is their desire, rather than Release; and the greater the new power they

create, the greater seems their revenge against the old. Still all that

was most respected, intelligent, and powerful amongst the assembly,

were delighted at a temperance which they foresaw would free Rome from

a thousand dangers, whether from the Emperor or the Pontiff. And their

delight was yet increased, when Rienzi added, so soon as returning

silence permitted--“And since we have been equal labourers in the same

cause, whatever honours be awarded to me, should be extended also to the

Vicar of the Pope, Raimond, Lord Bishop of Orvietto. Remember, that both

Church and State are properly the rulers of the people, only because

their benefactors.--Long live the first Vicar of a Pope that was ever

also the Liberator of a State!”

Whether or not Rienzi was only actuated by patriotism in his moderation,

certain it is, that his sagacity was at least equal to his virtue; and

perhaps nothing could have cemented the revolution more strongly, than

thus obtaining for a colleague the Vicar, and Representative of the

Pontifical power: it borrowed, for the time, the sanction of the Pope

himself--thus made to share the responsibility of the revolution,

without monopolising the power of the State.

While the crowd hailed the proposition of Rienzi; while their shouts

yet filled the air; while Raimond, somewhat taken by surprise, sought by

signs and gestures to convey at once his gratitude and his humility,

the Tribune-Elect, casting his eyes around, perceived many hitherto

attracted by curiosity, and whom, from their rank and weight, it

was desirable to secure in the first heat of the public enthusiasm.

Accordingly, as soon as Raimond had uttered a short and pompous

harangue,--in which his eager acceptance of the honour proposed him was

ludicrously contrasted by his embarrassed desire not to involve himself

or the Pope in any untoward consequences that might ensue,--Rienzi

motioned to two heralds that stood behind upon the platform, and one of

these advancing, proclaimed--“That as it was desirable that all hitherto

neuter should now profess themselves friends or foes, so they were

invited to take at once the oath of obedience to the laws, and

subscription to the Buono Stato.”

So great was the popular fervour, and so much had it been refined and

deepened in its tone by the addresses of Rienzi, that even the most

indifferent had caught the contagion: and no man liked to be seen

shrinking from the rest: so that the most neutral, knowing themselves

the most marked, were the most entrapped into allegiance to the Buono

Stato. The first who advanced to the platform and took the oath was the

Signor di Raselli, the father of Nina.--Others of the lesser nobility

followed his example.

The presence of the Pope’s Vicar induced the aristocratic; the fear

of the people urged the selfish; the encouragement of shouts and

gratulations excited the vain. The space between Adrian and Rienzi was

made clear. The young noble suddenly felt the eyes of the Tribune were

upon him; he felt that those eyes recognised and called upon him--he

coloured--he breathed short. The noble forbearance of Rienzi had touched

him to the heart;--the applause--the pageant--the enthusiasm of the

scene, intoxicated--confused him.--He lifted his eyes and saw before

him the sister of the Tribune--the lady of his love! His indecision--his

pause--continued, when Raimond, observing him, and obedient to a

whisper from Rienzi, artfully cried aloud--“Room for the Lord Adrian di

Castello! a Colonna! a Colonna!” Retreat was cut off. Mechanically, and

as if in a dream, Adrian ascended to the platform: and to complete the

triumph of the Tribune, the sun’s last ray beheld the flower of the

Colonna--the best and bravest of the Barons of Rome--confessing his

authority, and subscribing to his laws!

BOOK III. THE FREEDOM WITHOUT LAW.

“Ben furo avventurosi i cavalieri

Ch’ erano a quella eta, che nei vallone,

Nelle scure spelonche e boschi fieri,

Tane di serpi, d’orsi e di leoni,

Trovavan quel che nei palazzi altieri

Appena or trovar pon giudici buoni;

Donne che nella lor piu fresca etade

Sien degne di aver titol di beltade.”

Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, can. xiii. 1.

Chapter 3.I. The Return of Walter de Montreal to his Fortress.

When Walter de Montreal and his mercenaries quitted Corneto, they made

the best of their way to Rome; arriving there, long before the Barons,

they met with a similar reception at the gates, but Montreal prudently

forbore all attack and menace, and contented himself with sending his

trusty Rodolf into the city to seek Rienzi, and to crave permission

to enter with his troop. Rodolf returned in a shorter time than was

anticipated. “Well,” said Montreal impatiently, “you have the order I

suppose. Shall we bid them open the gates?”

“Bid them open our graves,” replied the Saxon, bluntly. “I trust my next

heraldry will be to a more friendly court.”

“How! what mean you?”

“Briefly this:--I found the new governor, or whatever his title, in the

palace of the Capitol, surrounded by guards and councillors, and in a

suit of the finest armour I ever saw out of Milan.”

“Pest on his armour! give us his answer.”

“‘Tell Walter de Montreal,’ said he, then, if you will have it, ‘that

Rome is no longer a den of thieves; tell him, that if he enters, he must

abide a trial--’”

“A trial!” cried Montreal, grinding his teeth.

“‘For participation in the evil doings of Werner and his freebooters.’”

“Ha!”

“‘Tell him, moreover, that Rome declares war against all robbers,

whether in tent or tower, and that we order him in forty-eight hours to

quit the territories of the Church.’”

“He thinks, then, not only to deceive, but to menace me? Well, proceed.”

“That was all his reply to you; to me, however, he vouchsafed a caution

still more obliging. ‘Hark ye, friend,’ said he, for every German bandit

found in Rome after tomorrow, our welcome will be cord and gibbet!

Begone.’”

“Enough! enough!” cried Montreal, colouring with rage and shame.

“Rodolf, you have a skilful eye in these matters, how many Northmen

would it take to give that same gibbet to the upstart?”

Rodolf scratched his huge head, and seemed awhile lost in calculation;

at length he said, “You, Captain, must be the best judge, when I tell

you, that twenty thousand Romans are the least of his force, so I heard

by the way; and this evening he is to accept the crown, and depose the

Emperor.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Montreal, “is he so mad? then he will want not our aid

to hang himself. My friends, let us wait the result. At present neither

barons nor people seem likely to fill our coffers. Let us across the

country to Terracina. Thank the saints,” and Montreal (who was not

without a strange kind of devotion,--indeed he deemed that virtue

essential to chivalry) crossed himself piously, “the free companions are

never long without quarters!”

“Hurrah for the Knight of St. John!” cried the mercenaries. “And hurrah

for fair Provence and bold Germany!” added the Knight, as he waved his

hand on high, struck spurs into his already wearied horse, and, breaking

out into his favourite song,

“His steed and his sword,

And his lady the peerless,” &c.,

Montreal, with his troop, struck gallantly across the Campagna.

The Knight of St. John soon, however, fell into an absorbed and moody

reverie; and his followers imitating the silence of their chief, in a

few minutes the clatter of their arms and the jingle of their spurs,

alone disturbed the stillness of the wide and gloomy plains across

which they made towards Terracina. Montreal was recalling with bitter

resentment his conference with Rienzi; and, proud of his own sagacity

and talent for scheming, he was humbled and vexed at the discovery that

he had been duped by a wilier intriguer. His ambitious designs on Rome,

too, were crossed, and even crushed for the moment, by the very means

to which he had looked for their execution. He had seen enough of the

Barons to feel assured that while Stephen Colonna lived, the head of the

order, he was not likely to obtain that mastery in the state which, if

leagued with a more ambitious or a less timid and less potent signor,

might reward his aid in expelling Rienzi. Under all circumstances, he

deemed it advisable to remain aloof. Should Rienzi grow strong, Montreal

might make the advantageous terms he desired with the Barons; should

Rienzi’s power decay, his pride, necessarily humbled, might drive him

to seek the assistance, and submit to the proposals, of Montreal.

The ambition of the Provencal, though vast and daring, was not of a

consistent and persevering nature. Action and enterprise were dearer to

him, as yet, than the rewards which they proffered; and if baffled

in one quarter, he turned himself, with the true spirit of the

knight-errant, to any other field for his achievements. Louis, king of

Hungary, stern, warlike, implacable, seeking vengeance for the murder of

his brother, the ill-fated husband of Joanna, (the beautiful and guilty

Queen of Naples--the Mary Stuart of Italy,) had already prepared himself

to subject the garden of Campania to the Hungarian yoke. Already his

bastard brother had entered Italy--already some of the Neapolitan states

had declared in his favour--already promises had been held out by the

northern monarch to the scattered Companies--and already those fierce

mercenaries gathered menacingly round the frontiers of that Eden of

Italy, attracted, as vultures to the carcass, by the preparation of war

and the hope of plunder. Such was the field to which the bold mind

of Montreal now turned its thoughts; and his soldiers had joyfully

conjectured his design when they had heard him fix Terracina as their

bourne. Provident of every resource, and refining his audacious and

unprincipled valour by a sagacity which promised, when years had more

matured and sobered his restless chivalry, to rank him among the most

dangerous enemies Italy had ever known, on the first sign of Louis’s

warlike intentions, Montreal had seized and fortified a strong castle on

that delicious coast beyond Terracina, by which lies the celebrated pass

once held by Fabius against Hannibal, and which Nature has so favoured

for war as for peace, that a handful of armed men might stop the march

of an army. The possession of such a fortress on the very frontiers of

Naples, gave Montreal an importance of which he trusted to avail

himself with the Hungarian king: and now, thwarted in his more grand and

aspiring projects upon Rome, his sanguine, active, and elastic spirit

congratulated itself upon the resource it had secured.

The band halted at nightfall on this side the Pontine Marshes, seizing

without scruple some huts and sheds, from which they ejected the

miserable tenants, and slaughtering with no greater ceremony the swine,

cattle, and poultry of a neighbouring farm. Shortly after sunrise they

crossed those fatal swamps which had already been partially drained by

Boniface VIII.; and Montreal, refreshed by sleep, reconciled to his late

mortification by the advantages opened to him in the approaching war

with Naples, and rejoicing as he approached a home which held one who

alone divided his heart with ambition, had resumed all the gaiety which

belonged to his Gallic birth and his reckless habits. And that deadly

but consecrated road, where yet may be seen the labours of Augustus,

in the canal which had witnessed the Voyage so humourously described by

Horace, echoed with the loud laughter and frequent snatches of wild song

by which the barbarian robbers enlivened their rapid march.

It was noon when the company entered upon that romantic pass I have

before referred to--the ancient Lantulae. High to the left rose steep

and lofty rocks, then covered by the prodigal verdure, and the countless

flowers, of the closing May; while to the right the sea, gentle as a

lake, and blue as heaven, rippled musically at their feet. Montreal, who

largely possessed the poetry of his land, which is so eminently allied

with a love of nature, might at another time have enjoyed the beauty of

the scene; but at that moment less external and more household images

were busy within him.

Abruptly ascending where a winding path up the mountain offered a rough

and painful road to their horses’ feet, the band at length arrived

before a strong fortress of grey stone, whose towers were concealed by

the lofty foliage, until they emerged sullenly and suddenly from the

laughing verdure. The sound of the bugle, the pennon of the knight, the

rapid watchword, produced a loud shout of welcome from a score or two

of grim soldiery on the walls; the portcullis was raised, and Montreal,

throwing himself hastily from his panting steed, sprung across the

threshold of a jutting porch, and traversed a huge hall, when a

lady--young, fair, and richly dressed--met him with a step equally

swift, and fell breathless and overjoyed into his arms.

“My Walter! my dear, dear Walter; welcome--ten thousand welcomes!”

“Adeline, my beautiful--my adored--I see thee again!”

Such were the greetings interchanged as Montreal pressed his lady to

his heart, kissing away her tears, and lifting her face to his, while

he gazed on its delicate bloom with all the wistful anxiety of affection

after absence.

“Fairest,” said he, tenderly, “thou hast pined, thou hast lost roundness

and colour since we parted. Come, come, thou art too gentle, or too

foolish, for a soldier’s love.”

“Ah, Walter!” replied Adeline, clinging to him, “now thou art returned,

and I shall be well. Thou wilt not leave me again a long, long time.”

“Sweet one, no;” and flinging his arm round her waist, the lovers--for

alas! they were not wedded!--retired to the more private chambers of the

castle.

Chapter 3.II. The Life of Love and War--the Messenger of Peace--the

Joust.

Girt with his soldiery, secure in his feudal hold, enchanted with the

beauty of the earth, sky, and sea around, and passionately adoring his

Adeline, Montreal for awhile forgot all his more stirring projects and

his ruder occupations. His nature was capable of great tenderness, as of

great ferocity; and his heart smote him when he looked at the fair cheek

of his lady, and saw that even his presence did not suffice to bring

back the smile and the fresh hues of old. Often he cursed that fatal

oath of his knightly order which forbade him to wed, though with one

more than his equal; and remorse embittered his happiest hours. That

gentle lady in that robber hold, severed from all she had been taught

most to prize--mother, friends, and fair fame--only loved her seducer

the more intensely; only the more concentrated upon one object all the

womanly and tender feelings denied every other and less sinful vent.

But she felt her shame, though she sought to conceal it, and a yet

more gnawing grief than even that of shame contributed to prey upon her

spirits and undermine her health. Yet, withal, in Montreal’s presence

she was happy, even in regret; and in her declining health she had at

least a consolation in the hope to die while his love was undiminished.

Sometimes they made short excursions, for the disturbed state of the

country forbade them to wander far from the castle, through the sunny

woods, and along the glassy sea, which make the charm of that delicious

scenery; and that mixture of the savage with the tender, the wild

escort, the tent in some green glade in the woods at noon, the lute and

voice of Adeline, with the fierce soldiers grouped and listening at the

distance, might have well suited the verse of Ariosto, and harmonised

singularly with that strange, disordered, yet chivalric time, in which

the Classic South became the seat of the Northern Romance. Still,

however, Montreal maintained his secret intercourse with the Hungarian

king, and, plunged in new projects, willingly forsook for the present

all his designs on Rome. Yet deemed he that his more august ambition

was only delayed, and, bright in the more distant prospects of his

adventurous career, rose the Capitol of Rome and shone the sceptre of

the Caesars.

One day, as Montreal, with a small troop in attendance, passed on

horseback near the walls of Terracina, the gates were suddenly thrown

open, and a numerous throng issued forth, preceded by a singular figure,

whose steps they followed bareheaded and with loud blessings; a train

of monks closed the procession, chanting a hymn, of which the concluding

words were as follows:--

Beauteous on the mountains--lo, The feet of him glad tidings gladly

bringing; The flowers along his pathway grow, And voices, heard aloft,

to angel harps are singing: And strife and slaughter cease Before thy

blessed way, Young Messenger of Peace! O’er the mount, and through the

moor, Glide thy holy steps secure. Day and night no fear thou knowest,

Lonely--but with God thou goest. Where the Heathen rage the fiercest,

Through the armed throng thou piercest. For thy coat of mail, bedight

In thy spotless robe of white. For the sinful sword--thy hand Bearing

bright the silver wand: Through the camp and through the court, Through

the bandit’s gloomy fort, On the mission of the dove, Speeds the

minister of love; By a word the wildest taming, And the world to Christ

reclaiming: While, as once the waters trod By the footsteps of thy

God, War, and wrath, and rapine cease, Hush’d round thy charmed path, O

Messenger of Peace!

The stranger to whom these honours were paid was a young, unbearded man,

clothed in white wrought with silver; he was unarmed and barefooted: in

his hand he held a tall silver wand. Montreal and his party halted in

astonishment and wonder, and the Knight, spurring his horse toward the

crowd, confronted the stranger.

“How, friend,” quoth the Provencal, “is thine a new order of pilgrims,

or what especial holiness has won thee this homage?”

“Back, back,” cried some of the bolder of the crowd, “let not the robber

dare arrest the Messenger of Peace.”

Montreal waved his hand disdainfully.

“I speak not to you, good sirs, and the worthy friars in your rear know

full well that I never injured herald or palmer.”

The monks, ceasing from their hymn, advanced hastily to the spot; and

indeed the devotion of Montreal had ever induced him to purchase the

goodwill of whatever monastery neighboured his wandering home.

“My son,” said the eldest of the brethren, “this is a strange spectacle,

and a sacred: and when thou learnest all, thou wilt rather give the

messenger a passport of safety from the unthinking courage of thy

friends than intercept his path of peace.”

“Ye puzzle still more my simple brain,” said Montreal, impatiently, “let

the youth speak for himself; I perceive that on his mantle are the

arms of Rome blended with other quarterings, which are a mystery to

me,--though sufficiently versed in heraldic art as befits a noble and a

knight.”

“Signor,” said the youth, gravely, “know in me the messenger of Cola di

Rienzi, Tribune of Rome, charged with letters to many a baron and prince

in the ways between Rome and Naples. The arms wrought upon my mantle are

those of the Pontiff, the City, and the Tribune.”

“Umph; thou must have bold nerves to traverse the Campagna with no other

weapon than that stick of silver!”

“Thou art mistaken, Sir Knight,” replied the youth, boldly, “and judgest

of the present by the past; know that not a single robber now lurks

within the Campagna, the arms of the Tribune have rendered every road

around the city as secure as the broadest street of the city itself.”

“Thou tellest me wonders.”

“Through the forest--and in the fortress,--through the wildest

solitudes,--through the most populous towns,--have my comrades borne

this silver wand unmolested and unscathed; wherever we pass along,

thousands hail us, and tears of joy bless the messengers of him who

hath expelled the brigand from his hold, the tyrant from his castle, and

ensured the gains of the merchant and the hut of the peasant.”

“Pardieu,” said Montreal, with a stern smile, “I ought to be thankful

for the preference shown to me; I have not yet received the commands,

nor felt the vengeance, of the Tribune; yet, methinks, my humble castle

lies just within the patrimony of St. Peter.”

“Pardon me, Signor Cavalier,” said the youth; “but do I address the

renowned Knight of St. John, warrior of the Cross, yet leader of

banditti?”

“Boy, you are bold; I am Walter de Montreal.”

“I am bound, then, Sir Knight, to your castle.”

“Take care how thou reach it before me, or thou standest a fair chance

of a quick exit. How now, my friends!” seeing that the crowd at these

words gathered closer round the messenger, “Think ye that I, who have

my mate in kings, would find a victim in an unarmed boy? Fie! give

way--give way. Young man, follow me homeward; you are safe in my castle

as in your mother’s arms.” So saying, Montreal, with great dignity

and deliberate gravity, rode slowly towards his castle, his soldiers,

wondering, at a little distance, and the white-robed messenger following

with the crowd, who refused to depart; so great was their enthusiasm,

that they even ascended to the gates of the dreaded castle, and insisted

on waiting without until the return of the youth assured them of his

safety.

Montreal, who, however lawless elsewhere, strictly preserved the rights

of the meanest boor in his immediate neighbourhood, and rather affected

popularity with the poor, bade the crowd enter the courtyard, ordered

his servitors to provide them with wine and refreshment, regaled the

good monks in his great hall, and then led the way to a small room,

where he received the messenger.

“This,” said the youth, “will best explain my mission,” as he placed a

letter before Montreal.

The Knight cut the silk with his dagger, and read the epistle with great

composure.

“Your Tribune,” said he, when he had finished it, “has learned the

laconic style of power very soon. He orders me to render this castle,

and vacate the Papal Territory within ten days. He is obliging; I must

have breathing time to consider the proposal; be seated, I pray you,

young sir. Forgive me, but I should have imagined that your lord had

enough upon his hands with his Roman barons, to make him a little more

indulgent to us foreign visitors. Stephen Colonna--”

“Is returned to Rome, and has taken the oath of allegiance; the Savelli,

the Orsini, the Frangipani, have all subscribed their submission to the

Buono Stato.”

“How!” cried Montreal, in great surprise.

“Not only have they returned, but they have submitted to the

dispersion of all their mercenaries, and the dismantling of all their

fortifications. The iron of the Orsini palace now barricades the

Capitol, and the stonework of the Colonna and the Savelli has added new

battlements to the gates of the Lateran and St. Laurence.”

“Wonderful man!” said Montreal, with reluctant admiration. “By what

means was this effected?”

“A stern command and a strong force to back it. At the first sound of

the great bell, twenty thousand Romans rise in arms. What to such an

army are the brigands of an Orsini or a Colonna?--Sir Knight, your

valour and renown make even Rome admire you; and I, a Roman, bid you

beware.”

“Well, I thank thee--thy news, friend, robs me of breath. So the Barons

submit, then?”

“Yes: on the first day, one of the Colonna, the Lord Adrian, took the

oath; within a week, Stephen, assured of safe conduct, left Palestrina,

the Savelli in his train; the Orsini followed--even Martino di Porto has

silently succumbed.”

“The Tribune--but is that his dignity--methought he was to be king--”

“He was offered, and he refused, the title. His present rank, which

arrogates no patrician honours, went far to conciliate the nobles.”

“A wise knave!--I beg pardon, a sagacious prince!--Well, then, the

Tribune lords it mightily, I suppose, over the great Roman names?”

“Pardon me--he enforces impartial justice from peasant or patrician; but

he preserves to the nobles all their just privileges and legal rank.”

“Ha!--and the vain puppets, so they keep the semblance, scarce miss the

substance--I understand. But this shows genius--the Tribune is unwed, I

think. Does he look among the Colonna for a wife?”

“Sir Knight, the Tribune is already married; within three days after his

ascension to power, he won and bore home the daughter of the Baron di

Raselli.”

“Raselli! no great name; he might have done better.”

“But it is said,” resumed the youth, smiling, “that the Tribune will

shortly be allied to the Colonna, through his fair sister the Signora

Irene. The Baron di Castello woos her.”

“What, Adrian Colonna! Enough! you have convinced me that a man who

contents the people and awes or conciliates the nobles is born for

empire. My answer to this letter I will send myself. For your news, Sir

Messenger, accept this jewel,” and the knight took from his finger a gem

of some price. “Nay, shrink not, it was as freely given to me as it is

now to thee.”

The youth, who had been agreeably surprised, and impressed, by the

manner of the renowned freebooter, and who was not a little astonished

himself with the ease and familiarity with which he had been relating

to Fra Moreale, in his own fortress, the news of Rome, bowed low as he

accepted the gift.

The astute Provencal, who saw the evident impression he had made,

perceived also that it might be of advantage in delaying the measures

he might deem it expedient to adopt. “Assure the Tribune,” said he, on

dismissing the messenger, “shouldst thou return ere my letter arrive,

that I admire his genius, hail his power, and will not fail to consider

as favourably as I may of his demand.”

“Better,” said the messenger, warmly (he was of good blood, and gentle

bearing),--“better ten tyrants for our enemy, than one Montreal.”

“An enemy! believe me, sir, I seek no enmity with princes who know how

to govern, or a people that has the wisdom at once to rule and to obey.”

The whole of that day, however, Montreal remained thoughtful and uneasy;

he despatched trusty messengers to the Governor of Aquila (who was then

in correspondence with Louis of Hungary), to Naples, and to Rome:--the

last charged with a letter to the Tribune, which, without absolutely

compromising himself, affected submission, and demanded only a longer

leisure for the preparations of departure. But, at the same time, fresh

fortifications were added to the castle, ample provisions were laid in,

and, night and day, spies and scouts were stationed along the pass, and

in the town of Terracina. Montreal was precisely the chief who prepared

most for war when most he pretended peace.

One morning, the fifth from the appearance of the Roman messenger,

Montreal, after narrowly surveying his outworks and his stores, and

feeling satisfied that he could hold out at least a month’s siege,

repaired, with a gayer countenance than he had lately worn, to the

chamber of Adeline.

The lady was seated by the casement of the tower, from which might be

seen the glorious landscape of woods, and vales, and orange groves--a

strange garden for such a palace! As she leant her face upon her hand,

with her profile slightly turned to Montreal, there was something

ineffably graceful in the bend of her neck,--the small head so

expressive of gentle blood,--with the locks parted in front in that

simple fashion which modern times have so happily revived. But the

expression of the half-averted face, the abstracted intentness of

the gaze, and the profound stillness of the attitude, were so sad and

mournful, that Montreal’s purposed greeting of gallantry and gladness

died upon his lips. He approached in silence, and laid his hand upon her

shoulder.

Adeline turned, and taking the hand in hers, pressed it to her heart,

and smiled away all her sadness. “Dearest,” said Montreal, “couldst thou

know how much any shadow of grief on thy bright face darkens my heart,

thou wouldst never grieve. But no wonder that in these rude walls--no

female of equal rank near thee, and such mirth as Montreal can summon to

his halls, grating to thy ear--no wonder that thou repentest thee of thy

choice.”

“Ah, no--no, Walter, I never repent. I did but think of our child as you

entered. Alas! he was our only child! How fair he was, Walter; how he

resembled thee!”

“Nay, he had thine eyes and brow,” replied the Knight, with a faltering

voice, and turning away his head.

“Walter,” resumed the lady, sighing, “do you remember?--this is his

birthday. He is ten years old today. We have loved each other eleven

years, and thou hast not tired yet of thy poor Adeline.”

“As well might the saints weary of paradise,” replied Montreal, with an

enamoured tenderness, which changed into softness the whole character of

his heroic countenance.

“Could I think so, I should indeed be blest!” answered Adeline. “But

a little while longer, and the few charms I yet possess must fade; and

what other claim have I on thee?”

“All claim;--the memory of thy first blushes--thy first kiss--of thy

devoted sacrifices--of thy patient wanderings--of thy uncomplaining

love! Ah, Adeline, we are of Provence, not of Italy; and when did Knight

of Provence avoid his foe, or forsake his love? But enough, dearest, of

home and melancholy for today. I come to bid thee forth. I have sent

on the servitors to pitch our tent beside the sea,--we will enjoy the

orange blossoms while we may. Ere another week pass over us, we may have

sterner pastime and closer confines.”

“How, dearest Walter! thou dost not apprehend danger?”

“Thou speakest, lady-bird,” said Montreal, laughing, “as if danger were

novelty; methinks by this time, thou shouldst know it as the atmosphere

we breathe.”

“Ah, Walter, is this to last for ever? Thou art now rich and renowned;

canst thou not abandon this career of strife?”

“Now, out on thee, Adeline! What are riches and renown but the means to

power! And for strife, the shield of warriors was my cradle--pray the

saints it be my bier! These wild and wizard extremes of life--from the

bower to the tent--from the cavern to the palace--today a wandering

exile, tomorrow the equal of kings--make the true element of the

chivalry of my Norman sires. Normandy taught me war, and sweet Provence

love. Kiss me, dear Adeline; and now let thy handmaids attire thee.

Forget not thy lute, sweet one. We will rouse the echoes with the songs

of Provence.”

The ductile temper of Adeline yielded easily to the gaiety of her lord;

and the party soon sallied from the castle towards the spot in which

Montreal had designed their resting-place during the heats of day. But

already prepared for all surprise, the castle was left strictly guarded,

and besides the domestic servitors of the castle, a detachment of ten

soldiers, completely armed, accompanied the lovers. Montreal himself

wore his corselet, and his squires followed with his helmet and lance.

Beyond the narrow defile at the base of the castle, the road at that day

opened into a broad patch of verdure, circled on all sides, save that

open to the sea, by wood, interspersed with myrtle and orange, and

a wilderness of odorous shrubs. In this space, and sheltered by the

broad-spreading and classic fagus (so improperly translated into the

English “beech”), a gay pavilion was prepared, which commanded the

view of the sparkling sea;--shaded from the sun, but open to the gentle

breeze. This was poor Adeline’s favourite recreation, if recreation it

might be called. She rejoiced to escape from the gloomy walls of her

castellated prison, and to enjoy the sunshine and the sweets of that

voluptuous climate without the fatigue which of late all exercise

occasioned her. It was a gallantry on the part of Montreal, who foresaw

how short an interval might elapse before the troops of Rienzi besieged

his walls; and who was himself no less at home in the bower than in the

field.

As they reclined within the pavilion--the lover and his lady,--of the

attendants without, some lounged idly on the beach; some prepared the

awning of a pleasure-boat against the decline of the sun; some, in a

ruder tent, out of sight in the wood, arranged the mid-day repast; while

the strings of the lute, touched by Montreal himself with a careless

skill, gave their music to the dreamy stillness of the noon.

While thus employed, one of Montreal’s scouts arrived breathless and

heated at the tent.

“Captain,” said he, “a company of thirty lances completely armed, with

a long retinue of squires and pages, have just quitted Terracina. Their

banners bear the two-fold insignia of Rome and the Colonna.”

“Ho!” said Montreal, gaily, “such a troop is a welcome addition to our

company; send our squire hither.”

The squire appeared.

“Hie thee on thy steed towards the procession thou wilt meet with in the

pass, (nay, sweet lady mine, no forbiddal!) seek the chief, and say that

the good Knight Walter de Montreal sends him greeting, and prays him,

in passing our proper territory, to rest awhile with us a welcome guest;

and--stay,--add, that if to while an hour or so in gentle pastime be

acceptable to him, Walter de Montreal would rejoice to break a lance

with him, or any knight in his train, in honour of our respective

ladies. Hie thee quick!”

“Walter, Walter,” began Adeline, who had that keen and delicate

sensitiveness to her situation, which her reckless lord often wantonly

forgot; “Walter, dear Walter, canst thou think it honour to--”

“Hush thee, sweet Fleur de lis! Thou hast not seen pastime this many

a day; I long to convince thee that thou art still the fairest lady in

Italy--ay, and of Christendom. But these Italians are craven knights,

and thou needst not fear that my proffer will be accepted. But in truth,

lady mine, I rejoice for graver objects, that chance throws a Roman

noble, perhaps a Colonna, in my way;--women understand not these

matters; and aught concerning Rome touches us home at this moment.”

With that the Knight frowned, as was his wont in thought, and Adeline

ventured to say no more, but retired to the interior division of the

pavilion.

Meanwhile the squire approached the procession that had now reached the

middle of the pass. And a stately and gallant company it was:--if the

complete harness of the soldiery seemed to attest a warlike purpose,

it was contradicted on the other hand by a numerous train of unarmed

squires and pages gorgeously attired, while the splendid blazon of

two heralds preceding the standard-bearers, proclaimed their object

as peaceful, and their path as sacred. It required but a glance at the

company to tell the leader. Arrayed in a breast-plate of steel, wrought

profusely with gold arabesques, over which was a mantle of dark green

velvet, bordered with pearls, while above his long dark locks waved a

black ostrich plume in a high Macedonian cap, such as, I believe, is now

worn by the Grand Master of the order of St. Constantine, rode in the

front of the party, a young cavalier, distinguished from his immediate

comrades, partly by his graceful presence and partly by his splendid

dress.

The squire approached respectfully, and dismounting, delivered himself

of his charge.

The young cavalier smiled, as he answered, “Bear back to Sir Walter de

Montreal the greeting of Adrian Colonna, Baron di Castello, and say,

that the solemn object of my present journey will scarce permit me to

encounter the formidable lance of so celebrated a knight; and I regret

this the more, inasmuch as I may not yield to any dame the palm of my

liege lady’s beauty. I must live in hope of a happier occasion. For

the rest, I will cheerfully abide for some few hours the guest of so

courteous a host.”

The squire bowed low. “My master,” said he, hesitatingly, “will grieve

much to miss so noble an opponent. But my message refers to all this

knightly and gallant train; and if the Lord Adrian di Castello deems

himself forbidden the joust by the object of his present journey, surely

one of his comrades will be his proxy with my master.”

Out and quickly spoke a young noble by the side of Adrian, Riccardo

Annibaldi, who afterwards did good service both to the Tribune and to

Rome, and whose valour brought him, in later life, to an untimely end.

“By the Lord Adrian’s permission,” cried he, “I will break a lance

with--”

“Hush! Annibaldi,” interrupted Adrian. “And you, Sir Squire, know, that

Adrian di Castello permits no proxy in arms. Avise the Knight of St.

John that we accept his hospitality, and if, after some converse on

graver matters, he should still desire so light an entertainment, I will

forget that I am the ambassador to Naples, and remember only that I am a

Knight of the Empire. You have your answer.”

The squire with much ceremony made his obeisance, remounted his steed,

and returned in a half-gallop to his master.

“Forgive me, dear Annibaldi,” said Adrian, “that I balked your valour;

and believe me that I never more longed to break a lance against any man

than I do against this boasting Frenchman. But bethink you, that though

to us, brought up in the dainty laws of chivalry, Walter de Montreal

is the famous Knight of Provence, to the Tribune of Rome, whose grave

mission we now fulfil, he is but the mercenary captain of a Free

Company. Grievously in his eyes should we sully our dignity by so wanton

and irrelevant a holiday conflict with a declared and professional

brigand.”

“For all that,” said Annibaldi, “the brigand ought not to boast that a

Roman knight shunned a Provencal lance.”

“Cease, I pray thee!” said Adrian, impatiently. In fact, the young

Colonna, already chafed bitterly against his discreet and dignified

rejection of Montreal’s proffer, and recollecting with much pique

the disparaging manner in which the Provencal had spoken of the Roman

chivalry, as well as a certain tone of superiority, which in all warlike

matters Montreal had assumed over him,--he now felt his cheek burn, and

his lip quiver. Highly skilled in the martial accomplishments of his

time, he had a natural and excusable desire to prove that he was at

least no unworthy antagonist even of the best lance in Italy: and, added

to this, the gallantry of the age made him feel it a sort of treason to

his mistress to forego any means of asserting her perfections.

It was, therefore, with considerable irritation that Adrian, as the

pavilion of Montreal became visible, perceived the squire returning

to him. And the reader will judge how much this was increased when the

latter, once more dismounting, accosted him thus:

“My master, the Knight of St. John, on hearing the courteous answer of

the Lord Adrian di Castello, bids me say, that lest the graver converse

the Lord Adrian refers to should mar gentle and friendly sport, he

ventures respectfully to suggest, that the tilt should preface the

converse. The sod before the tent is so soft and smooth, that even a

fall could be attended with no danger to knight or steed.”

“By our Lady!” cried Adrian and Annibaldi in a breath, “but thy last

words are discourteous; and” (proceeded Adrian, recovering himself)

“since thy master will have it so, let him look to his horse’s girths. I

will not gainsay his fancy.”

Montreal, who had thus insisted upon the exhibition, partly, it may

be, from the gay and ruffling bravado, common still amongst his brave

countrymen; partly because he was curious of exhibiting before those who

might soon be his open foes his singular and unrivalled address in arms,

was yet more moved to it on learning the name of the leader of the

Roman Company; for his vain and haughty spirit, however it had

disguised resentment at the time, had by no means forgiven certain

warm expressions of Adrian in the palace of Stephen Colonna, and in the

unfortunate journey to Corneto. While Adrian, halting at the entrance of

the defile, aided by his squires, indignantly, but carefully, indued the

rest of his armour, and saw, himself, to the girths, stirrup-leathers,

and various buckles in the caparison of his noble charger, Montreal in

great glee kissed his lady, who, though too soft to be angry, was deeply

vexed, (and yet her vexation half forgotten in fear for his safety,)

snatched up her scarf of blue, which he threw over his breastplate, and

completed his array with the indifference of a man certain of victory.

He was destined, however, to one disadvantage, and that the greatest;

his armour and lance had been brought from the castle--not his warhorse.

His palfrey was too slight to bear the great weight of his armour, nor

amongst his troop was there one horse that for power and bone could

match with Adrian’s. He chose, however, the strongest that was at hand,

and a loud shout from his wild followers testified their admiration when

he sprung unaided from the ground into the saddle--a rare and difficult

feat of agility in a man completely arrayed in the ponderous armour

which issued at that day from the forges of Milan, and was worn far more

weighty in Italy than any other part of Europe. While both companies

grouped slowly, and mingled in a kind of circle round the green turf,

and the Roman heralds, with bustling importance, attempted to marshal

the spectators into order, Montreal rode his charger round the sward,

forcing it into various caracoles, and exhibiting, with the vanity that

belonged to him, his exquisite and practised horsemanship.

At length, Adrian, his visor down, rode slowly into the green space,

amidst the cheers of his party. The two Knights, at either end, gravely

fronted each other; they made the courtesies with their lances, which,

in friendly and sportive encounters, were customary; and, as they thus

paused for the signal of encounter, the Italians trembled for the honour

of their chief: Montreal’s stately height and girth of chest forming a

strong contrast, even in armour, to the form of his opponent, which was

rather under the middle standard, and though firmly knit, slightly and

slenderly built. But to that perfection was skill in arms brought in

those times, that great strength and size were far from being either

the absolute requisites, or even the usual attributes, of the more

celebrated knights; in fact, so much was effected by the power and the

management of the steed, that a light weight in the rider was often

rather to his advantage than his prejudice: and, even at a later period,

the most accomplished victors in the tourney, the French Bayard and the

English Sydney, were far from remarkable either for bulk or stature.

Whatever the superiority of Montreal in physical power, was, in much,

counterbalanced by the inferiority of his horse, which, though a

thick-built and strong Calabrian, had neither the blood, bone, nor

practised discipline of the northern charger of the Roman. The shining

coat of the latter, coal black, was set off by a scarlet cloth wrought

in gold; the neck and shoulders were clad in scales of mail; and from

the forehead projected a long point, like the horn of an unicorn, while

on its crest waved a tall plume of scarlet and white feathers. As the

mission of Adrian to Naples was that of pomp and ceremony to a court of

great splendour, so his array and retinue were befitting the occasion

and the passion for show that belonged to the time; and the very bridle

of his horse, which was three inches broad, was decorated with gold, and

even jewels. The Knight himself was clad in mail, which had tested the

finest art of the celebrated Ludovico of Milan; and, altogether, his

appearance was unusually gallant and splendid, and seemed still more so

beside the plain but brightly polished and artfully flexile armour of

Montreal, (adorned only with his lady’s scarf,) and the common and rude

mail of his charger. This contrast, however, was not welcome to the

Provencal, whose vanity was especially indulged in warlike equipments;

and who, had he foreseen the “pastime” that awaited him, would have

outshone even the Colonna.

The trumpeters of either party gave a short blast--the Knights remained

erect as statues of iron; a second, and each slightly bent over his

saddle-bow; a third, and with spears couched, slackened reins, and

at full speed, on they rushed, and fiercely they met midway. With the

reckless arrogance which belonged to him, Montreal had imagined, that at

the first touch of his lance Adrian would have been unhorsed; but to his

great surprise the young Roman remained firm, and amidst the shouts of

his party, passed on to the other end of the lists. Montreal himself was

rudely shaken, but lost neither seat nor stirrup.

“This can be no carpet knight,” muttered Montreal between his teeth,

as, this time, he summoned all his skill for a second encounter; while

Adrian, aware of the great superiority of his charger, resolved to bring

it to bear against his opponent. Accordingly, when the Knights again

rushed forward, Adrian, covering himself well with his buckler, directed

his care less against the combatant, whom he felt no lance wielded by

mortal hand was likely to dislodge, than against the less noble animal

he bestrode. The shock of Montreal’s charge was like an avalanche--his

lance shivered into a thousand pieces, Adrian lost both stirrups, and

but for the strong iron bows which guarded the saddle in front and rear,

would have been fairly unhorsed; as it was, he was almost doubled back

by the encounter, and his ears rung and his eyes reeled, so that for a

moment or two he almost lost all consciousness. But his steed had well

repaid its nurture and discipline. Just as the combatants closed, the

animal, rearing on high, pressed forward with its mighty crest against

its opponent with a force so irresistible as to drive back Montreal’s

horse several paces: while Adrian’s lance, poised with exquisite skill,

striking against the Provencal’s helmet, somewhat rudely diverted the

Knight’s attention for the moment from his rein. Montreal, drawing the

curb too tightly in the suddenness of his recovery, the horse reared

on end; and, receiving at that instant, full upon his breastplate, the

sharp horn and mailed crest of Adrian’s charger--fell back over its

rider upon the sward. Montreal disencumbered himself in great rage and

shame, as a faint cry from his pavilion reached his ear, and redoubled

his mortification. He rose with a lightness which astonished the

beholders; for so heavy was the armour worn at that day, that few

knights once stretched upon the ground could rise without assistance;

and drawing his sword, cried out fiercely--“On foot, on foot!--the fall

was not mine, but this accursed beast’s, that I must needs for my sins

raise to the rank of a charger. Come on--”

“Nay, Sir Knight,” said Adrian, drawing off his gauntlets and unbuckling

his helmet, which he threw on the ground, “I come to thee a guest and

a friend; but to fight on foot is the encounter of mortal foes. Did I

accept thy offer, my defeat would but stain thy knighthood.”

Montreal, whose passion had beguiled him for the moment, sullenly

acquiesced in this reasoning. Adrian hastened to soothe his antagonist.

“For the rest,” said he, “I cannot pretend to the prize. Your lance lost

me my stirrups--mine left you unshaken. You say right; the defeat, if

any, was that of your steed.”

“We may meet again when I am more equally horsed,” said Montreal, still

chafing.

“Now, our Lady forbid!” exclaimed Adrian, with so devout an earnestness

that the bystanders could not refrain from laughing; and even Montreal

grimly and half-reluctantly, joined in the merriment. The courtesy of

his foe, however, conciliated and touched the more frank and soldierly

qualities of his nature, and composing himself, he replied:--

“Signor di Castello, I rest your debtor for a courtesy that I have but

little imitated. Howbeit, if thou wouldst bind me to thee for ever, thou

wilt suffer me to send for my own charger, and afford me a chance to

retrieve mine honour. With that steed, or with one equal to thine, which

seems to me of the English breed, I will gage all I possess, lands,

castle, and gold, sword and spurs, to maintain this pass, one by one,

against all thy train.”

Fortunately, perhaps, for Adrian, ere he could reply, Riccardo Annibaldi

cried, with great warmth, “Sir Knight, I have with me two steeds well

practised in the tourney; take thy choice, and accept in me a champion

of the Roman against the French chivalry;--there is my gage.”

“Signor,” replied Montreal, with ill-suppressed delight, “thy proffer

shows so gallant and free a spirit, that it were foul sin in me to balk

it. I accept thy gage, and whichever of thy steeds thou rejectest, in

God’s name bring it hither, and let us waste no words before action.”

Adrian, who felt that hitherto the Romans had been more favoured by

fortune than merit, vainly endeavoured to prevent this second hazard.

But Annibaldi was greatly chafed, and his high rank rendered it

impolitic in Adrian to offend him by peremptory prohibition; the

Colonna reluctantly, therefore, yielded his assent to the engagement.

Annibaldi’s steeds were led to the spot, the one a noble roan, the other

a bay, of somewhat less breeding and bone, but still of great strength

and price. Montreal finding the choice pressed upon him, gallantly

selected the latter and less excellent.

Annibaldi was soon arrayed for the encounter, and Adrian gave the word

to the trumpeters. The Roman was of a stature almost equal to that of

Montreal, and though some years younger, seemed, in his armour, nearly

of the same thews and girth, so that the present antagonists appeared

at the first glance more evenly matched than the last. But this time

Montreal, well horsed, inspired to the utmost by shame and pride,

felt himself a match for an army; and he met the young Baron with

such prowess, that while the very plume on his casque seemed scarcely

stirred, the Italian was thrown several paces from his steed, and it was

not till some moments after his visor was removed by his squires that

he recovered his senses. This event restored Montreal to all his natural

gaiety of humour, and effectually raised the spirits of his followers,

who had felt much humbled by the previous encounter.

He himself assisted Annibaldi to rise with great courtesy, and a

profusion of compliments, which the proud Roman took in stern silence,

and then led the way to the pavilion, loudly ordering the banquet to be

spread. Annibaldi, however, loitered behind, and Adrian, who penetrated

his thoughts, and who saw that over their cups a quarrel between

the Provencal and his friend was likely to ensue, drawing him aside,

said:--“Methinks, dear Annibaldi, it would be better if you, with the

chief of our following, were to proceed onward to Fondi, where I will

join you at sunset. My squires, and some eight lances, will suffice for

my safeguard here; and, to say truth, I desire a few private words

with our strange host, in the hope that he may be peaceably induced

to withdraw from hence without the help of our Roman troops, who have

enough elsewhere to feed their valour.”

Annibaldi pressed his companion’s hand: “I understand thee,” he replied

with a slight blush, “and, indeed, I could but ill brook the complacent

triumph of the barbarian. I accept thy offer.”

Chapter 3.III. The Conversation between the Roman and the

Provencal--Adeline’s History--the Moonlit Sea--the Lute and the Song.

As soon as Annibaldi, with the greater part of the retinue, was gone,

Adrian, divesting himself of his heavy greaves, entered alone the

pavilion of the Knight of St. John. Montreal had already doffed all his

armour, save the breastplate, and he now stepped forward to welcome his

guest with the winning and easy grace which better suited his birth

than his profession. He received Adrian’s excuses for the absence of

Annibaldi and the other knights of his train with a smile which seemed

to prove how readily he divined the cause, and conducted him to the

other and more private division of the pavilion in which the repast

(rendered acceptable by the late exercise of guest and host) was

prepared; and here Adrian for the first time discovered Adeline. Long

inurement to the various and roving life of her lover, joined to a

certain pride which she derived from conscious, though forfeited, rank,

gave to the outward manner of that beautiful lady an ease and freedom

which often concealed, even from Montreal, her sensitiveness to her

unhappy situation. At times, indeed, when alone with Montreal, whom she

loved with all the devotion of romance, she was sensible only to the

charm of a presence which consoled her for all things; but in his

frequent absence, or on the admission of any stranger, the illusion

vanished--the reality returned. Poor lady! Nature had not formed,

education had not reared, habit had not reconciled, her to the breath of

shame!

The young Colonna was much struck by her beauty, and more by her gentle

and highborn grace. Like her lord she appeared younger than she was;

time seemed to spare a bloom which an experienced eye might have told

was destined to an early grave; and there was something almost girlish

in the lightness of her form--the braided luxuriance of her rich auburn

hair, and the colour that went and came, not only with every moment,

but almost with every word. The contrast between her and Montreal

became them both--it was the contrast of devoted reliance and protecting

strength: each looked fairer in the presence of the other: and as Adrian

sate down to the well-laden board, he thought he had never seen a pair

more formed for the poetic legends of their native Troubadours.

Montreal conversed gaily upon a thousand matters--pressed the wine

flasks--and selected for his guest the most delicate portions of the

delicious spicola of the neighbouring sea, and the rich flesh of the

wild boar of the Pontine Marshes.

“Tell me,” said Montreal, as their hunger was now appeased--“tell me,

noble Adrian, how fares your kinsman, Signor Stephen? A brave old man

for his years.”

“He bears him as the youngest of us,” answered Adrian.

“Late events must have shocked him a little,” said Montreal, with an

arch smile. “Ah, you look grave--yet commend my foresight;--I was the

first who prophesied to thy kinsman the rise of Cola di Rienzi; he seems

a great man--never more great than in conciliating the Colonna and the

Orsini.”

“The Tribune,” returned Adrian, evasively, “is certainly a man of

extraordinary genius. And now, seeing him command, my only wonder is how

he ever brooked to obey--majesty seems a very part of him.”

“Men who win power, easily put on its harness, dignity,” answered

Montreal; “and if I hear aright--(pledge me to your lady’s health)--the

Tribune, if not himself nobly born will soon be nobly connected.”

“He is already married to a Raselli, an old Roman house,” replied

Adrian.

“You evade my pursuit,--Le doulx soupir! le doulx soupir! as the old

Cabestan has it”--said Montreal, laughing. “Well, you have pledged me

one cup to your lady, pledge another to the fair Irene, the Tribune’s

sister--always provided they two are not one.--You smile and shake your

head.”

“I do not disguise from you, Sir Knight,” answered Adrian, “that when my

present embassy is over, I trust the alliance between the Tribune and a

Colonna will go far towards the benefit of both.”

“I have heard rightly, then,” said Montreal, in a grave and thoughtful

tone. “Rienzi’s power must, indeed, be great.”

“Of that my mission is a proof. Are you aware, Signor de Montreal, that

Louis, King of Hungary--”

“How! what of him?”

“Has referred the decision of the feud between himself and Joanna of

Naples, respecting the death of her royal spouse, his brother, to the

fiat of the Tribune? This is the first time, methinks, since the death

of Constantine, that so great a confidence and so high a charge were

ever intrusted to a Roman!”

“By all the saints in the calendar,” cried Montreal, crossing himself,

“this news is indeed amazing! The fierce Louis of Hungary waive the

right of the sword, and choose other umpire than the field of battle!”

“And this,” continued Adrian, in a significant tone, “this it was which

induced me to obey your courteous summons. I know, brave Montreal, that

you hold intercourse with Louis. Louis has given to the Tribune the best

pledge of his amity and alliance; will you do wisely if you--”

“Wage war with the Hungarian’s ally,” interrupted Montreal. “This you

were about to add; the same thought crossed myself. My Lord, pardon

me--Italians sometimes invent what they wish. On the honour of a knight

of the Empire, these tidings are the naked truth?”

“By my honour, and on the Cross,” answered Adrian, drawing himself up;

“and in proof thereof, I am now bound to Naples to settle with the Queen

the preliminaries of the appointed trial.”

“Two crowned heads before the tribunal of a plebeian, and one a

defendant against the charge of murther!” muttered Montreal; “the news

might well amaze me!”

He remained musing and silent a little while, till looking up, he caught

Adeline’s tender gaze fixed upon him with that deep solicitude with

which she watched the outward effect of schemes and projects she was too

soft to desire to know, and too innocent to share.

“Lady mine,” said the Provencal, fondly, “how sayest thou? must we

abandon our mountain castle, and these wild woodland scenes, for the

dull walls of a city? I fear me so.--The Lady Adeline,” he continued,

turning to Adrian, “is of a singular bias; she hates the gay crowds

of streets and thoroughfares, and esteems no palace like the solitary

outlaw’s hold. Yet, methinks, she might outshine all the faces of

Italy,--thy mistress, Lord Adrian, of course, excepted.”

“It is an exception which only a lover, and that too a betrothed lover,

would dare to make,” replied Adrian, gallantly.

“Nay,” said Adeline, in a voice singularly sweet and clear, “nay, I know

well at what price to value my lord’s flattery, and Signor di Castello’s

courtesy. But you are bound, Sir Knight, to a court, that, if fame speak

true, boasts in its Queen the very miracle and mould of beauty.”

“It is some years since I saw the Queen of Naples,” answered Adrian;

“and I little dreamed then, when I gazed upon that angel face, that I

should live to hear her accused of the foulest murther that ever stained

even Italian royalty.”

“And, as if resolved to prove her guilt,” said Montreal, “ere long

be sure she will marry the very man who did the deed. Of this I have

certain proof.”

Thus conversing, the Knights wore away the daylight, and beheld from the

open tent the sun cast his setting glow over the purple sea. Adeline

had long retired from the board, and they now saw her seated with her

handmaids on a mound by the beach; while the sound of her lute faintly

reached their ears. As Montreal caught the air, he turned from the

converse, and sighing, half shaded his face with his hand. Somehow or

other the two Knights had worn away all the little jealousy or pique

which they had conceived against each other at Rome. Both imbued with

the soldier-like spirit of the age, their contest in the morning had

served to inspire them with that strange kind of respect, and even

cordiality, which one brave man even still (how much more at that day!)

feels for another, whose courage he has proved while vindicating his

own. It is like the discovery of a congenial sentiment hitherto latent;

and, in a life of camps, often establishes sudden and lasting friendship

in the very lap of enmity. This feeling had been ripened by their

subsequent familiar intercourse, and was increased on Adrian’s side by

the feeling, that in convincing Montreal of the policy of withdrawing

from the Roman territories, he had obtained an advantage that well

repaid whatever danger and delay he had undergone.

The sigh, and the altered manner of Montreal, did not escape Adrian, and

he naturally connected it with something relating to her whose music had

been its evident cause.

“Yon lovely dame,” said he, gently, “touches the lute with an exquisite

and fairy hand, and that plaintive air seems to my ear as of the

minstrelsy of Provence.”

“It is the air I taught her,” said Montreal, sadly, “married as it is

to indifferent words, with which I first wooed a heart that should never

have given itself to me! Ay, young Colonna, many a night has my boat

been moored beneath the starlit Sorgia that washes her proud father’s

halls, and my voice awaked the stillness of the waving sedges with a

soldier’s serenade. Sweet memories! bitter fruit!”

“Why bitter? ye love each other still.”

“But I am vowed to celibacy, and Adeline de Courval is leman where she

should be wedded dame. Methinks I fret at that thought even more than

she,--dear Adeline!”

“Your lady, as all would guess, is then nobly born?”

“She is,” answered Montreal, with a deep and evident feeling which, save

in love, rarely, if ever, crossed his hardy breast. “She is! our tale is

a brief one:--we loved each other as children: Her family was wealthier

than mine: We were separated. I was given to understand that she

abandoned me. I despaired, and in despair I took the cross of St. John.

Chance threw us again together. I learned that her love was

undecayed. Poor child!--she was even then, sir, but a child! I,

wild,--reckless--and not unskilled, perhaps, in the arts that woo and

win. She could not resist my suit or her own affection!--We fled. In

those words you see the thread of my after history. My sword and

my Adeline were all my fortune. Society frowned on us. The Church

threatened my soul. The Grand Master my life. I became a knight of

fortune. Fate and my right hand favoured me. I have made those who

scorned me tremble at my name. That name shall yet blaze, a star or a

meteor, in the front of troubled nations, and I may yet win by force

from the Pontiff the dispensation refused to my prayers. On the same

day, I may offer Adeline the diadem and the ring.--Eno’ of this;--you

marked Adeline’s cheek!--Seems it not delicate? I like not that

changeful flush,--and she moves languidly,--her step that was so

blithe!”

“Change of scene and the mild south will soon restore her health,” said

Adrian; “and in your peculiar life she is so little brought in contact

with others, especially of her own sex, that I trust she is but seldom

made aware of whatever is painful in her situation. And woman’s love,

Montreal, as we both have learned, is a robe that wraps her from many a

storm!”

“You speak kindly,” returned the Knight; “but you know not all our cause

of grief. Adeline’s father, a proud sieur, died,--they said of a broken

heart,--but old men die of many another disease than that! The mother, a

dame who boasted her descent from princes, bore the matter more sternly

than the sire; clamoured for revenge,--which was odd, for she is as

religious as a Dominican, and revenge is not Christian in a woman,

though it is knightly in a man!--Well, my Lord, we had one boy, our

only child; he was Adeline’s solace in my absence,--his pretty ways were

worth the world to her! She loved him so, that, but he had her eyes and

looked like her when he slept, I should have been jealous! He grew up in

our wild life, strong and comely; the young rogue, he would have been a

brave knight! My evil stars led me to Milan, where I had business with

the Visconti. One bright morning in June, our boy was stolen; verily

that June was like a December to us!”

“Stolen!--how?--by whom?”

“The first question is answered easily,--the boy was with his nurse in

the courtyard, the idle wench left him for but a minute or two--so she

avers--fetch him some childish toy; when she returned he was gone; not a

trace left, save his pretty cap with the plume in it! Poor Adeline, many

a time have I found her kissing that relic till it was wet with tears!”

“A strange fortune, in truth. But what interest could--”

“I will tell you,” interrupted Montreal, “the only conjecture I could

form;--Adeline’s mother, on learning we had a son, sent to Adeline a

letter, that well nigh broke her heart, reproaching her for her love

to me, and so forth, as if that had made her the vilest of the sex.

She bade her take compassion on her child, and not bring him up to a

robber’s life,--so was she pleased to style the bold career of Walter de

Montreal. She offered to rear the child in her own dull halls, and fit

him, no doubt, for a shaven pate and a monk’s cowl. She chafed much that

a mother would not part with her treasure! She alone, partly in revenge,

partly in silly compassion for Adeline’s child, partly, it may be, from

some pious fanaticism, could, it so seemed to me, have robbed us of our

boy. On inquiry, I learned from the nurse--who, but that she was of the

same sex as Adeline, should have tasted my dagger,--that in their walks,

a woman of advanced years, but seemingly of humble rank, (that might

be disguise!) had often stopped, and caressed and admired the child. I

repaired at once to France, sought the old Castle of De Courval;--it had

passed to the next heir, and the old widow was go on, none knew whither,

but, it was conjectured, to take the veil in some remote convent.”

“And you never saw her since?”

“Yes, at Rome,” answered Montreal, turning pale; “when last there I

chanced suddenly upon her; and then at length I learned my boy’s fate,

and the truth of my own surmise; she confessed to the theft--and my

child was dead! I have not dared to tell Adeline of this; it seems to me

as if it would be like plucking the shaft from the wounded side--and she

would die at once, bereft of the uncertainty that rankles within her.

She has still a hope--it comforts her; though my heart bleeds when I

think on its vanity. Let this pass, my Colonna.”

And Montreal started to his feet as if he strove, by a strong effort, to

shake off the weakness that had crept over him in his narration.

“Think no more of it. Life is short--its thorns are many--let us not

neglect any of its flowers. This is piety and wisdom too; Nature that

meant me to struggle and to toil, gave me, happily, the sanguine heart

and the elastic soul of France; and I have lived long enough to own that

to die young is not an evil. Come, Lord Adrian, let us join my lady ere

you part, if part you must; the moon will be up soon, and Fondi is but

a short journey hence. You know that though I admire not your Petrarch,

you with more courtesy laud our Provencal ballads, and you must hear

Adeline sing one that you may prize them the more. The race of the

Troubadours is dead, but the minstrelsy survives the minstrel!”

Adrian, who scarce knew what comfort to administer to the affliction of

his companion, was somewhat relieved by the change in his mood, though

his more grave and sensitive nature was a little startled at its

suddenness. But, as we have before seen, Montreal’s spirit (and this

made perhaps its fascination) was as a varying and changeful sky;

the gayest sunshine, and the fiercest storm swept over it in rapid

alternation; and elements of singular might and grandeur, which,

properly directed and concentrated, would have made him the blessing and

glory of his time, were wielded with a boyish levity, roused into war

and desolation, or lulled into repose and smoothness, with all the

suddenness of chance, and all the fickleness of caprice.

Sauntering down to the beach, the music of Adeline’s lute sounded more

distinctly in their ears, and involuntarily they hushed their steps

upon the rich and odorous turf, as in a voice, though not powerful,

marvellously sweet and clear, and well adapted to the simple fashion of

the words and melody, she sang the following stanzas:--

Lay of the Lady of Provence.

1.

Ah, why art thou sad, my heart? Why

Darksome and lonely?

Frowns the face of the happy sky

Over thee only?

Ah me, ah me!

Render to joy the earth!

Grief shuns, not envies, Mirth;

But leave one quiet spot,

Where Mirth may enter not,

To sigh, Ah, me!--

Ah me.

2.

As a bird, though the sky be clear,

Feels the storm lower;

My soul bodes the tempest near,

In the sunny hour;

Ah me, ah me!

Be glad while yet we may!

I bid thee, my heart, be gay;

And still I know not why,--

Thou answerest with a sigh,

(Fond heart!) Ah me!--

Ah me!

3.

As this twilight o’er the skies,

Doubt brings the sorrow;

Who knows when the daylight dies,

What waits the morrow?

Ah me, ah me!

Be blithe, be blithe, my lute,

Thy strings will soon be mute;

Be blithe--hark! while it dies,

The note forewarning, sighs

Its last--Ah me!

Ah me!

“My own Adeline--my sweetest night-bird,” half-whispered Montreal, and

softly approaching, he threw himself at his lady’s feet--“thy song is

too sad for this golden eve.”

“No sound ever went to the heart,” said Adrian, “whose arrow was not

feathered by sadness. True sentiment, Montreal, is twin with melancholy,

though not with gloom.”

The lady looked softly and approvingly up at Adrian’s face; she was

pleased with its expression; she was pleased yet more with words of

which women rather than men would acknowledge the truth. Adrian returned

the look with one of deep and eloquent sympathy and respect; in fact,

the short story he had heard from Montreal had interested him deeply in

her; and never to the brilliant queen, to whose court he was bound, did

his manner wear so chivalric and earnest a homage as it did to that lone

and ill-fated lady on the twilight shores of Terracina.

Adeline blushed slightly and sighed; and then, to break the awkwardness

of a pause which had stolen over them, as Montreal, unheeding the last

remark of Adrian, was tuning the strings of the lute, she said--“Of

course the Signor di Castello shares the universal enthusiasm for

Petrarch?”

“Ay,” cried Montreal; “my lady is Petrarch mad, like the rest of them:

but all I know is, that never did belted knight and honest lover woo in

such fantastic and tortured strains.”

“In Italy,” answered Adrian, “common language is exaggeration;--but even

your own Troubadour poetry might tell you that love, ever seeking a new

language of its own, cannot but often run into what to all but lovers

seems distortion and conceit.”

“Come, dear Signor,” said Montreal, placing the lute in Adrian’s hands,

“let Adeline be the umpire between us, which music--yours or mine--can

woo the more blandly.”

“Ah,” said Adrian, laughing; “I fear me, Sir Knight, you have already

bribed the umpire.”

Montreal’s eyes and Adeline’s met; and in that gaze Adeline forgot all

her sorrows.

With a practised and skilful hand, Adrian touched the strings; and

selecting a song which was less elaborate than those mostly in vogue

amongst his countrymen, though still conceived in the Italian spirit,

and in accordance with the sentiment he had previously expressed to

Adeline, he sang as follows:--

Love’s Excuse for Sadness.

Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee I feel not rapture wholly; For aye

the heart that’s fill’d with love, Runs o’er in melancholy. To streams

that glide in noon, the shade From summer skies is given; So, if my

breast reflects the cloud, ‘Tis but the cloud of heaven! Thine image

glass’d within my soul So well the mirror keepeth; That, chide me not,

if with the light The shadow also sleepeth.

“And now,” said Adrian, as he concluded, “the lute is to you: I but

preclude your prize.”

The Provencal laughed, and shook his head.--“With any other umpire, I

had had my lute broken on my own head, for my conceit in provoking such

a rival; but I must not shrink from a contest I have myself provoked,

even though in one day twice defeated.” And with that, in a deep and

exquisitely melodious voice, which wanted only more scientific culture

to have challenged any competition, the Knight of St. John poured forth:

The Lay of the Troubadour.

1.

Gentle river, the moonbeam is hush’d on thy tide,

On thy pathway of light to my lady I glide.

My boat, where the stream laves the castle, I moor,--

All at rest save the maid and her young Troubadour!

As the stars to the waters that bore

My bark, to my spirit thou art;

Heaving yet, see it bound to the shore,

So moor’d to thy beauty my heart,--

Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie!

2.

Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath wealth for the vain;

But Love breaks his bond when there’s gold in the chain;

Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath courts for the proud;--

But Love, born in caves, pines to death in the crowd.

Were this bosom thy world, dearest one,

Thy world could not fail to be bright;

For thou shouldst thyself be its sun,

And what spot could be dim in thy light--

Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie?

3.

The rich and the great woo thee dearest; and poor,

Though his fathers were princes, thy young Troubadour!

But his heart never quail’d save to thee, his adored,--

There’s no guile in his lute, and no stain on his sword.

Ah, I reck not what sorrows I know,

Could I still on thy solace confide;

And I care not, though earth be my foe,

If thy soft heart be found by my side,--

Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie!

4.

The maiden she blush’d, and the maiden she sighed,

Not a cloud in the sky, not a gale on the tide;

But though tempest had raged on the wave and the wind,

That castle, methinks, had been still left behind!

Sweet lily, though bow’d by the blast,

(To this bosom transplanted) since then,

Wouldst thou change, could we call the past,

To the rock from thy garden again--

Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie?

Thus they alternated the time with converse and song, as the wooded

hills threw their sharp, long shadows over the sea; while from many a

mound of waking flowers, and many a copse of citron and orange, relieved

by the dark and solemn aloe, stole the summer breeze, laden with mingled

odours; and, over the seas, coloured by the slow-fading hues of purple

and rose, that the sun had long bequeathed to the twilight, flitted the

gay fireflies that sparkle along that enchanted coast. At length, the

moon slowly rose above the dark forest-steeps, gleaming on the gay

pavilion and glittering pennon of Montreal,--on the verdant sward,--the

polished mail of the soldiers, stretched on the grass in various groups,

half-shaded by oaks and cypress, and the war-steeds grazing peaceably

together--a wild mixture of the Pastoral and the Iron time.

Adrian, reluctantly reminded of his journey, rose to depart.

“I fear,” said he to Adeline, “that I have already detained you too late

in the night air: but selfishness is little considerate.”

“Nay, you see we are prudent,” said Adeline, pointing to Montreal’s

mantle, which his provident hand had long since drawn around her form;

“but if you must part, farewell, and success attend you!”

“We may meet again, I trust,” said Adrian.

Adeline sighed gently; and the Colonna, gazing on her face by the

moonlight, to which it was slightly raised, was painfully struck by its

almost transparent delicacy. Moved by his compassion, ere he mounted

his steed, he drew Montreal aside,--“Forgive me if I seem presumptuous,”

said he; “but to one so noble this wild life is scarce a fitting career.

I know that, in our time, War consecrates all his children; but surely

a settled rank in the court of the Emperor, or an honourable

reconciliation with your knightly brethren, were better--”

“Than a Tartar camp, and a brigand’s castle,” interrupted Montreal, with

some impatience. “This you were about to say--you are mistaken. Society

thrust me from her bosom; let society take the fruit it hath sown. ‘A

fixed rank,’ say you? some subaltern office, to fight at other men’s

command! You know me not: Walter de Montreal was not formed to obey.

War when I will, and rest when I list, is the motto of my escutcheon.

Ambition proffers me rewards you wot not of; and I am of the mould as

of the race of those whose swords have conquered thrones. For the rest,

your news of the alliance of Louis of Hungary with your Tribune makes it

necessary for the friend of Louis to withdraw from all feud with Rome.

Ere the week expire, the owl and the bat may seek refuge in yon grey

turrets.”

“But your lady?”

“Is inured to change.--God help her, and temper the rough wind to the

lamb!”

“Enough, Sir Knight: but should you desire a sure refuge at Rome for one

so gentle and so highborn, by the right hand of a knight, I promise a

safe roof and an honoured home to the Lady Adeline.”

Montreal pressed the offered hand to his heart; then plucking his own

hastily away, drew it across his eyes, and joined Adeline, in a silence

that showed he dared not trust himself to speak. In a few moments Adrian

and his train were on the march; but still the young Colonna turned

back, to gaze once more on his wild host and that lovely lady, as

they themselves lingered on the moonlit sward, while the sea rippled

mournfully on their ears.

It was not many months after that date, that the name of Fra Monreale

scattered terror and dismay throughout the fair Campania. The right

hand of the Hungarian king, in his invasion of Naples, he was chosen

afterwards vicar (or vice-gerent) of Louis in Aversa; and fame and fate

seemed to lead him triumphantly along that ambitious career which he had

elected, whether bounded by the scaffold or the throne.

BOOK IV. THE TRIUMPH AND THE POMP.

“Allora fama e paura di si buono reggimento, passa in ogni

terra.”--“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. cap. 21.

“Then the fame and the fear of that so good government

passed into every land.”--“Life of Cola di Rienzi”.

Chapter 4.I. The Boy Angelo--the Dream of Nina Fulfilled.

The thread of my story transports us back to Rome. It was in a small

chamber, in a ruinous mansion by the base of Mount Aventine, that a

young boy sate, one evening, with a woman of a tall and stately form,

but somewhat bowed both by infirmity and years. The boy was of a fair

and comely presence; and there was that in his bold, frank, undaunted

carriage, which made him appear older than he was.

The old woman, seated in the recess of the deep window, was apparently

occupied with a Bible that lay open on her knees; but ever and anon she

lifted her eyes, and gazed on her young companion with a sad and anxious

expression.

“Dame,” said the boy, who was busily employed in hewing out a sword of

wood, “I would you had seen the show today. Why, every day is a show

at Rome now! It is show enough to see the Tribune himself on his white

steed--(oh, it is so beautiful!)--with his white robes all studded with

jewels. But today, as I have just been telling you, the Lady Nina took

notice of me, as I stood on the stairs of the Capitol: you know, dame, I

had donned my best blue velvet doublet.”

“And she called you a fair boy, and asked if you would be her little

page; and this has turned thy brain, silly urchin that thou art--”

“But the words are the least: if you saw the Lady Nina, you would own

that a smile from her might turn the wisest head in Italy. Oh, how I

should like to serve the Tribune! All the lads of my age are mad for

him. How they will stare, and envy me at school tomorrow! You know too,

dame, that though I was not always brought up at Rome, I am Roman. Every

Roman loves Rienzi.”

“Ay, for the hour: the cry will soon change. This vanity of thine,

Angelo, vexes my old heart. I would thou wert humbler.”

“Bastards have their own name to win,” said the boy, colouring deeply.

“They twit me in the teeth, because I cannot say who my father and

mother were.”

“They need not,” returned the dame, hastily. “Thou comest of noble blood

and long descent, though, as I have told thee often, I know not the

exact names of thy parents. But what art thou shaping that tough sapling

of oak into?”

“A sword, dame, to assist the Tribune against the robbers.”

“Alas! I fear me, like all those who seek power in Italy, he is more

likely to enlist robbers than to assail them.”

“Why, la you there, you live so shut up, that you know and hear nothing,

or you would have learned that even that fiercest of all the robbers,

Fra Moreale, has at length yielded to the Tribune, and fled from his

castle, like a rat from a falling house.”

“How, how!” cried the dame; “what say you? Has this plebeian, whom you

call the Tribune--has he boldly thrown the gage to that dread warrior?

and has Montreal left the Roman territory?”

“Ay, it is the talk of the town. But Fra Moreale seems as much a bugbear

to you as to e’er a mother in Rome. Did he ever wrong you, dame?”

“Yes!” exclaimed the old woman, with so abrupt a fierceness, that even

that hardy boy was startled.

“I wish I could meet him, then,” said he, after a pause, as he

flourished his mimic weapon.

“Now Heaven forbid! He is a man ever to be shunned by thee, whether for

peace or war. Say again this good Tribune holds no terms with the Free

Lances.”

“Say it again--why all Rome knows it.”

“He is pious, too, I have heard; and they do bruit it that he sees

visions, and is comforted from above,” said the woman, speaking to

herself. Then turning to Angelo, she continued,--“Thou wouldst like

greatly to accept the Lady Nina’s proffer?”

“Ah, that I should, dame, if you could spare me.”

“Child,” replied the matron, solemnly, “my sand is nearly run, and my

wish is to see thee placed with one who will nurture thy young years,

and save thee from a life of licence. That done, I may fulfil my vow,

and devote the desolate remnant of my years to God. I will think more

of this, my child. Not under such a plebeian’s roof shouldst thou have

lodged, nor from a stranger’s board been fed: but at Rome, my last

relative worthy of the trust is dead;--and at the worst, obscure honesty

is better than gaudy crime. Thy spirit troubles me already. Back, my

child; I must to my closet, and watch and pray.”

Thus saying, the old woman, repelling the advance, and silencing the

muttered and confused words, of the boy--half affectionate as they were,

yet half tetchy and wayward--glided from the chamber.

The boy looked abstractedly at the closing door, and then said to

himself--“The dame is always talking riddles: I wonder if she know more

of me than she tells, or if she is any way akin to me. I hope not, for

I don’t love her much; nor, for that matter, anything else. I wish she

would place me with the Tribune’s lady, and then we’ll see who among the

lads will call Angelo Villani bastard.”

With that the boy fell to work again at his sword with redoubled vigour.

In fact, the cold manner of this female, his sole nurse, companion,

substitute for parent, had repelled his affections without subduing his

temper; and though not originally of evil disposition, Angelo Villani

was already insolent, cunning, and revengeful; but not, on the other

hand, without a quick susceptibility to kindness as to affront, a

natural acuteness of understanding, and a great indifference to fear.

Brought up in quiet affluence rather than luxury, and living much with

his protector, whom he knew but by the name of Ursula, his bearing was

graceful, and his air that of the well-born. And it was his carriage,

perhaps, rather than his countenance, which, though handsome, was more

distinguished for intelligence than beauty, which had attracted the

notice of the Tribune’s bride. His education was that of one reared for

some scholastic profession. He was not only taught to read and write,

but had been even instructed in the rudiments of Latin. He did not,

however, incline to these studies half so fondly as to the games of his

companions, or the shows or riots in the street, into all of which

he managed to thrust himself, and from which he had always the happy

dexterity to return safe and unscathed.

The next morning Ursula entered the young Angelo’s chamber. “Wear again

thy blue doublet today,” said she; “I would have thee look thy best.

Thou shalt go with me to the palace.”

“What, today?” cried the boy joyfully, half leaping from his bed.

“Dear dame Ursula, shall I really then belong to the train of the great

Tribune’s lady?”

“Yes; and leave the old woman to die alone! Your joy becomes you,--but

ingratitude is in your blood. Ingratitude! Oh, it has burned my heart

into ashes--and yours, boy, can no longer find a fuel in the dry

crumbling cinders.”

“Dear dame, you are always so biting. You know you said you wished to

retire into a convent, and I was too troublesome a charge for you. But

you delight in rebuking me, justly or unjustly.”

“My task is over,” said Ursula, with a deep-drawn sigh.

The boy answered not; and the old woman retired with a heavy step,

and, it may be, a heavier heart. When he joined her in their common

apartment, he observed what his joy had previously blinded him to--that

Ursula did not wear her usual plain and sober dress. The gold chain,

rarely assumed then by women not of noble birth--though, in the

other sex, affected also by public functionaries and wealthy

merchants--glittered upon a robe of the rich flowered stuffs of Venice,

and the clasps that confined the vest at the throat and waist were

adorned with jewels of no common price.

Angelo’s eye was struck by the change, but he felt a more manly pride in

remarking that the old lady became it well. Her air and mien were indeed

those of one to whom such garments were habitual; and they seemed that

day more than usually austere and stately.

She smoothed the boy’s ringlets, drew his short mantle more gracefully

over his shoulder, and then placed in his belt a poniard whose handle

was richly studded, and a purse well filled with florins.

“Learn to use both discreetly,” said she; “and, whether I live or die,

you will never require to wield the poniard to procure the gold.”

“This, then,” cried Angelo, enchanted, “is a real poniard to fight the

robbers with! Ah, with this I should not fear Fra Moreale, who wronged

thee so. I trust I may yet avenge thee, though thou didst rate me so

just now for ingratitude.”

“I am avenged. Nourish not such thoughts, my son, they are sinful;

at least I fear so. Draw to the board and eat; we will go betimes, as

petitioners should do.”

Angelo had soon finished his morning meal, and sallying with Ursula to

the porch, he saw, to his surprise, four of those servitors who then

usually attended persons of distinction, and who were to be hired in

every city, for the convenience of strangers or the holyday ostentation

of the gayer citizens.

“How grand we are today!” said he, clapping his hands with an eagerness

which Ursula failed not to reprove.

“It is not for vain show,” she added, “which true nobility can well

dispense with, but that we may the more readily gain admittance to the

palace. These princes of yesterday are not easy of audience to the over

humble.”

“Oh! but you are wrong this time,” said the boy. “The Tribune gives

audience to all men, the poorest as the richest. Nay, there is not a

ragged boor, or a bare-footed friar, who does not win access to him

sooner than the proudest baron. That’s why the people love him so.

And he devotes one day of the week to receiving the widows and the

orphans;--and you know, dame, I am an orphan.”

Ursula, already occupied with her own thoughts, did not answer, and

scarcely heard, the boy; but leaning on his young arm, and preceded by

the footmen to clear the way, passed slowly towards the palace of the

Capitol.

A wonderful thing would it have been to a more observant eye, to note

the change which two or three short months of the stern but salutary

and wise rule of the Tribune had effected in the streets of Rome. You

no longer beheld the gaunt and mail-clad forms of foreign mercenaries

stalking through the vistas, or grouped in lazy insolence before

the embattled porches of some gloomy palace. The shops, that in many

quarters had been closed for years, were again open, glittering with

wares and bustling with trade. The thoroughfares, formerly either silent

as death, or crossed by some affrighted and solitary passenger with

quick steps, and eyes that searched every corner,--or resounding with

the roar of a pauper rabble, or the open feuds of savage nobles, now

exhibited the regular, and wholesome, and mingled streams of civilized

life, whether bound to pleasure or to commerce. Carts and waggons laden

with goods which had passed in safety by the dismantled holds of the

robbers of the Campagna, rattled cheerfully over the pathways. “Never,

perhaps,”--to use the translation adapted from the Italian authorities,

by a modern and by no means a partial historian (Gibbon.)--“Never,

perhaps, has the energy and effect of a single mind been more remarkably

felt than in the sudden reformation of Rome by the Tribune Rienzi. A

den of robbers was converted to the discipline of a camp or convent. ‘In

this time,’ says the historian, (“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. c.

9.) ‘did the woods begin to rejoice that they were no longer infested

with robbers; the oxen began to plough; the pilgrims visited the

sanctuaries; (Gibbon: the words in the original are “li pellegrini

cominciaro a fere la cerca per la santuaria.”) the roads and inns

were replenished with travellers: trade, plenty, and good faith, were

restored in the markets; and a purse of gold might be exposed without

danger in the midst of the highways.’”

Amidst all these evidences of comfort and security to the people--some

dark and discontented countenances might be seen mingled in the crowd,

and whenever one who wore the livery of the Colonna or the Orsini felt

himself jostled by the throng, a fierce hand moved involuntarily to the

sword-belt, and a half-suppressed oath was ended with an indignant

sigh. Here and there too,--contrasting the redecorated, refurnished, and

smiling shops--heaps of rubbish before the gate of some haughty mansion

testified the abasement of fortifications which the owner impotently

resented as a sacrilege. Through such streets and such throngs did the

party we accompany wend their way, till they found themselves amidst

crowds assembled before the entrance of the Capitol. The officers there

stationed kept, however, so discreet and dexterous an order, that they

were not long detained; and now in the broad place or court of that

memorable building, they saw the open doors of the great justice-hall,

guarded but by a single sentinel, and in which, for six hours daily,

did the Tribune hold his court, for “patient to hear, swift to redress,

inexorable to punish, his tribunal was always accessible to the poor and

stranger.” (Gibbon.)

Not, however, to that hall did the party bend its way, but to the

entrance which admitted to the private apartments of the palace. And

here the pomp, the gaud, the more than regal magnificence, of the

residence of the Tribune, strongly contrasted the patriarchal simplicity

which marked his justice court.

Even Ursula, not unaccustomed, of yore, to the luxurious state of

Italian and French principalities, seemed roused into surprise at the

hall crowded with retainers in costly liveries, the marble and gilded

columns wreathed with flowers, and the gorgeous banners wrought with the

blended arms of the Republican City and the Pontifical See, which blazed

aloft and around.

Scarce knowing whom to address in such an assemblage, Ursula was

relieved from her perplexity by an officer attired in a suit of crimson

and gold, who, with a grave and formal decorum, which indeed reigned

throughout the whole retinue, demanded, respectfully, whom she sought?

“The Signora Nina!” replied Ursula, drawing up her stately person, with

a natural, though somewhat antiquated, dignity. There was something

foreign in the accent, which influenced the officer’s answer.

“Today, madam, I fear that the Signora receives only the Roman ladies.

Tomorrow is that appointed for all foreign dames of distinction.”

Ursula, with a slight impatience of tone, replied--“My business is of

that nature which is welcome on any day, at palaces. I come, Signor, to

lay certain presents at the Signora’s feet, which I trust she will deign

to accept.”

“And say, Signor,” added the boy, abruptly, “that Angelo Villani, whom

the Lady Nina honoured yesterday with her notice, is no stranger but a

Roman; and comes, as she bade him, to proffer to the Signora his homage

and devotion.”

The grave officer could not refrain a smile at the pert, yet not

ungraceful, boldness of the boy.

“I remember me, Master Angelo Villani,” he replied, “that the Lady

Nina spoke to you by the great staircase. Madam, I will do your errand.

Please to follow me to an apartment more fitting your sex and seeming.”

With that the officer led the way across the hall to a broad staircase

of white marble, along the centre of which were laid those rich Eastern

carpets which at that day, when rushes strewed the chambers of an

English monarch, were already common to the greater luxury of Italian

palaces. Opening a door at the first flight, he ushered Ursula and

her young charge into a lofty ante-chamber, hung with arras of wrought

velvets; while over the opposite door, through which the officer now

vanished, were blazoned the armorial bearings which the Tribune so

constantly introduced in all his pomp, not more from the love of show,

than from his politic desire to mingle with the keys of the Pontiff the

heraldic insignia of the Republic.

“Philip of Valois is not housed like this man!” muttered Ursula. “If

this last, I shall have done better for my charge than I recked of.”

The officer soon returned, and led them across an apartment of vast

extent, which was indeed the great reception chamber of the palace.

Four-and-twenty columns of the Oriental alabaster which had attested the

spoils of the later emperors, and had been disinterred from forgotten

ruins, to grace the palace of the Reviver of the old Republic, supported

the light roof, which, half Gothic, half classic, in its architecture,

was inlaid with gilded and purple mosaics. The tesselated floor was

covered in the centre with cloth of gold, the walls were clothed, at

intervals, with the same gorgeous hangings, relieved by panels freshly

painted in the most glowing colours, with mystic and symbolical designs.

At the upper end of this royal chamber, two steps ascended to the place

of the Tribune’s throne, above which was the canopy wrought with the

eternal armorial bearings of the Pontiff and the City.

Traversing this apartment, the officer opened the door at its extremity,

which admitted to a small chamber, crowded with pages in rich dresses of

silver and blue velvet. There were few amongst them elder than Angelo;

and, from their general beauty, they seemed the very flower and blossom

of the city.

Short time had Angelo to gaze on his comrades that were to be:--another

minute, and he and his protectress were in the presence of the Tribune’s

bride.

The chamber was not large--but it was large enough to prove that the

beautiful daughter of Raselli had realised her visions of vanity and

splendour.

It was an apartment that mocked description--it seemed a cabinet for the

gems of the world. The daylight, shaded by high and deep-set casements

of stained glass, streamed in a purple and mellow hue over all that the

art of that day boasted most precious, or regal luxury held most dear.

The candelabras of the silver workmanship of Florence; the carpets and

stuffs of the East; the draperies of Venice and Genoa; paintings like

the illuminated missals, wrought in gold, and those lost colours of blue

and crimson; antique marbles, which spoke of the bright days of Athens;

tables of disinterred mosaics, their freshness preserved as by magic;

censers of gold that steamed with the odours of Araby, yet so subdued

as not to deaden the healthier scent of flowers, which blushed in every

corner from their marble and alabaster vases; a small and spirit-like

fountain, which seemed to gush from among wreaths of roses, diffusing

in its diamond and fairy spray, a scarce felt coolness to the air;--all

these, and such as these, which it were vain work to detail, congregated

in the richest luxuriance, harmonised with the most exquisite taste,

uniting the ancient arts with the modern, amazed and intoxicated the

sense of the beholder. It was not so much the cost, nor the luxury, that

made the character of the chamber; it was a certain gorgeous and almost

sublime phantasy,--so that it seemed rather the fabled retreat of

an enchantress, at whose word genii ransacked the earth, and fairies

arranged the produce, than the grosser splendour of an earthly queen.

Behind the piled cushions upon which Nina half reclined, stood four

girls, beautiful as nymphs, with fans of the rarest feathers, and at

her feet lay one older than the rest, whose lute, though now silent,

attested her legitimate occupation.

But, had the room in itself seemed somewhat too fantastic and

overcharged in its prodigal ornaments, the form and face of Nina would

at once have rendered all appropriate; so completely did she seem the

natural Spirit of the Place; so wonderfully did her beauty, elated as it

now was with contented love, gratified vanity, exultant hope, body forth

the brightest vision that ever floated before the eyes of Tasso, when

he wrought into one immortal shape the glory of the Enchantress with the

allurements of the Woman.

Nina half rose as she saw Ursula, whose sedate and mournful features

involuntarily testified her surprise and admiration at a loveliness

so rare and striking, but who, undazzled by the splendour around, soon

recovered her wonted self-composure, and seated herself on the cushion

to which Nina pointed, while the young visitor remained standing, and

spell-bound by childish wonder, in the centre of the apartment. Nina

recognised him with a smile.

“Ah, my pretty boy, whose quick eye and bold air caught my fancy

yesterday! Have you come to accept my offer? Is it you, madam, who claim

this fair child?”

“Lady,” replied Ursula, “my business here is brief: by a train of

events, needless to weary you with narrating, this boy from his infancy

fell to my charge--a weighty and anxious trust to one whose thoughts

are beyond the barrier of life. I have reared him as became a youth of

gentle blood; for on both sides, lady, he is noble, though an orphan,

motherless and sireless.”

“Poor child!” said Nina, compassionately.

“Growing now,” continued Ursula, “oppressed by years, and desirous only

to make my peace with Heaven, I journeyed hither some months since, in

the design to place the boy with a relation of mine; and, that trust

fulfilled, to take the vows in the City of the Apostle. Alas! I found my