Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone. Let him fear nothing." When along the shore, And by the path that, wandering on its way, Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell, (Gray and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there,) He came and they withdrew: they were a race Careless of life in others and themselves, For they had learnt their lesson in a camp; But not ungenerous. 'Tis no longer so. Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay Th' unhappy captive, and with bitter jests Mocking misfortune; vain, fantastical, Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil; And most devout, though when they kneel pray, The grave of one that from the precipice Things only known to the devout and pure In the confessional. He moves his lips As with a curse-then paces up and down, and Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on; Gloomy alike to him the past, the future. With every bead they could recount a murder. Some there are He comes slowly forth Unkennelling, and up that savage dell Anxiously looks; his cruse, an ample gourd, (Duly replenish'd from the vintner's cask,) Slung from his shoulder; in his breadth of belt Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed, A parchment scrawl'd with uncouth characters, And a small vial, his last remedy, His cure when all things fail. No noise is heard, Leaps in the gulf beneath :-But now he kneels Two monks, Portly, gray-headed, on their gallant steeds, Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet! -'Tis but a dappled herd come down to slake Their thirst in the cool wave. He turns and aimsThen checks himself, unwilling to disturb The sleeping echoes. Once again he earths; Slipping away to house with them beneath, His old companions in that hiding place, The bat, the toad, the blind-worm, and the newt; And hark, a footstep, firm and confident, As of a man in haste. Nearer it draws; And now is at the entrance of the den. Ha! 'tis a comrade, sent to gather in The band for some great enterprise. Who wants A sequel, may read on. Th' unvarnish'd tale, XIV. AN ADVENTURE. THREE days they lay in ambush at my gate, Heaves o'er the dead-where erst some Alaric Then all advanced, and, ranging in a square, Whose heart knows no relentings. Instantly I wrote. ""Tis well," he cried. "A peasant boy, And all were gone, save him who now kept guard, said. To pluck a grape in very wantonness. I heard him not. I stood as in a trance. As I stagger'd down, Why may I not, while yet-while yet I can, "Well mayst thou, lying, as thou dost, so near I loved, was scorn'd; I trusted, was betray'd; Met with the fiend, the tempter-in Rusconi. Come and assert thy birthright while thou canst. And death itself, what is it at the worst, Dost thou ask How I have kept my oath? Thou shalt be told, Two months ago, grave, Had not Rusconi with a terrible shout Thus wouldst thou justify the pledge I gave, Ere his tale was told, As on the heath we lay, my ransom came; -But the night wears, and thou art much in need XV. THIS region, surely, is not of the earth.* Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terro.-Sannazaro. Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, Everywhere Fable and truth have shed, in rivalry, Yet here, methinks, Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape Here the vines Wed, each her elm, and o'er the golden grain By many a voice yet sweeter than their own, Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth He works his wonders; save, when issuing forth The sleep of ages-till a plough, a spade Disclose the secret, and the eye of day Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons, Each in his place, each in his gay attire, And eager to enjoy. Let us go round, And let the sail be slack, the course be slow, What the mountainous isle,* Seen in the south? "Tis where a monster dwelt,t Who hurl'd his victims from the topmost cliff; Then and then only merciful, so slow, So subtle were the tortures they endured. went. Yet such things were-and will be, when mankind, Let us turn the prow, Once did I linger there alone, till day Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came, So grateful, yet so solemn! At the fount, Just where the three ways meet, I stood and look'i, ('Twas near a noble house, the house of Pansa,) And all was still as in the long, long night That follow'd, when the shower of ashes fell, When they that sought Pompeii, sought in vain ; It was not to be found. But now a ray, Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced, And on the wheel-track worn for centuries, And on the stepping-stones from side to side, O'er which the maidens, with their water-urns Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear, The moon was rising, and at once reveal'd The name of every dweller, and his craft; Shining throughout with an unusual lustre, And lighting up this city of the dead. Here lived a miller; silent and at rest Of shows ere long to be,) a sculptor wrought, Gravely discussing the last news from Rome. As through the courts and chambers we advance, And columns clustering in patrician splendour. XVI. THE BAG OF GOLD. said he with a sigh-what else remained for me? -I went into the church. Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conversation, very many have been happy, though we were not; and, if I am not abusing an old man's privilege, let me tell you a story with a better catastrophe. It was told to me when a boy; and you may not be unwilling to hear it, for it bears some resemblance to that of the Merchant of Venice. We were now arrived at a pavilion that commanded one of the noblest prospects imaginable; the mountains, the sea, and the islands illuminated by the last beams of day; and, sitting down there, he proceeded with his usual vivacity; for the sadness, that had come across him, was gone. There lived in the fourteenth century, near Bologna, a widow lady of the Lambertini family, called Madonna Lucrezia, who in a revolution of the state had known the bitterness of poverty, and had even begged her bread; kneeling day after day like a statue at the gate of the cathedral; her rosary in her left hand and her right held out for charity her long black veil concealing a face that had once adorned a court, and had received the homage of as many sonnets as Petrarch has written on Laura. But fortune had at last relented; a legacy from a distant relation had come to her relief; and she was now the mistress of a small inn at the foot of the Apennines; where she entertained as well as she could, and where those only stopped who were contented with a little. The house was still standing, when in my youth I passed that way; though the sign of the White Cross, the cross of the Hospitallers, was no longer to be seen over the door; a sign which she had taken, if we may believe the tradition there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a grandmaster of that order, whose achievements in Palestine she would sometimes relate. A mountain stream ran through the garden; and at no great distance, where the road turned on its way to Bo I DINE Very often with the good old Cardinal *** and, I should add, with his cats; for they always sit at his table, and are much the gravest of the com-logna, stood a little chapel, in which a lamp was pany. His beaming countenance makes us forget always burning before a picture of the virgin, a his age; nor did I ever see it clouded till yesterday, picture of great antiquity, the work of some Greek when, as we were contemplating the sunset from artist. his terrace, he happened, in the course of our conversation, to allude to an affecting circumstance in his early life. Here she was dwelling, respected by all who knew her; when an event took place, which threw her into the deepest affliction. It was at noonday in September that three foot travellers arrived, and, seating themselves on a bench under her vine trel He had just left the university of Palermo and was entering the army, when he became acquainted with a young lady of great beauty and merit, alis, were supplied with a flagon of Aleatico by a Sicilian of a family as illustrious as his own. Living near each other, they were often together; and, at an age like theirs, friendship soon turns to love. But his father, for what reason I forget, refused his consent to their union; till, alarmed at the declining health of his son, he promised to oppose it no longer, if, after a separation of three years, they continued as much in love as ever. Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on a lovely girl, her only child, the image of her former self. The eldest spoke like a Venetian, and his beard was short and pointed after the fashion of Venice. In his demeanour he affected great courtesy, but his look inspired little confidence; for when he smiled, which he did continually, it was with his lips only, not with his eyes; and they were always turned from yours. His companions were bluff and frank in their manner, and on their tongues had many a soldier's oath. In their hats they wore a medal, such as in that age was often distributed in war; and they were evidently subalterns in one of those free bands which were always ready to serve in any quarrel, if a service it could be called, where a battle was little more than a mockery; and the slain, as on an opera stage, were up and fighting to-morrow. Overcome with the heat, they threw aside their cloaks; and, with their gloves tucked under their belts, continued for some time in earnest conversation. At length they rose to go; and the Venetians thus addressed their hostess. "Excellent lady, may we leave under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of gold?" "You may," she replied gayly. "But remember, we fasten only with a latch. Bars and bolts we have none in our village; and, if we had, where would be your security?" "In your word, lady." "But what if I died to-night? where would it be then?" said she, laughing. "The money would go to the church; for none could claim it." Now Gianetta had a lover; and he was a student of the law, a young man of great promise, Lorenzo Martelli. He had studied long and diligently under that learned lawyer, Giovanni Andreas, who, though little of stature, was great in renown, and by his contemporaries was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of Doctors, the Light of the World. Under him he had studied, sitting on the same bench with Petrarch; and also under his daughter, Novella, who would often lecture to the scholars, when her father was otherwise engaged, placing herself behind a small curtain, lest her beauty should divert their thoughts; a precaution in this instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having lost his heart to another." To him she flies in her necessity; but of what "Perhaps you will favour us with an acknow-assistance can he be? He has just taken his place at ledgment." "If you will write it." An acknowledgment was written accordingly, and she signed it before Master Bartolo, the village physician, who had just called by chance to learn the news of the day; the gold to be delivered when applied for, but to be delivered (these were the words) not to one-nor to two-but to the three; words wisely introduced by those to whom it belonged, knowing what they knew of each other. The gold they had just released from a miser's chest in Perugia; and they were now on a scent that promised more. They and their shadows were no sooner departed, than the Venetian returned, saying, "Give me leave to set my seal on the bag, as the others have done;" and she placed it on a table before him. But in that moment she was called away to receive a cavalier, who had just dismounted from his horse; and, when she came back, it was gone. The temptation had proved irresistible; and the man and the money had vanished together. "Wretched woman that I am!" she cried, as in an agony of grief she fell on her daughter's neck; "what will become of us? Are we again to be cast out into the wide world?-Unhappy child, would that thou hadst never been born!" and all day long she lamented; but her tears availed her little. The others were not slow in returning to claim their due; and there were no tidings of the thief: he had fled far away with his plunder. A process against her was instantly begun in Bologna; and what defence could she make?-how release herself from the obligation of the bond? Wilfully or in negligence she had parted with it to one, when she should have kept it for all, and inevitable ruin awaited her! "Go, Gianetta," said she to her daughter, "take this veil, which your mother has worn and wept under so often, and implore the counsellor Calderino to plead for us on the day of trial. He is generous, and will listen to the unfortunate. But, if he will not, go from door to door; Monaldi cannot refuse us. Make haste, my child; but remember the chapel as you pass by it. Nothing prospers without a prayer." Alas, she went, but in vain. These were retained against them; those demanded more than they had to give; and all bade them despair. What was to be done? No advocate; and the cause to come on 10-morrow! the bar, but he has never spoken; and how stand up alone, unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an array that would alarm the most experienced ?— Were I as mighty as I am weak," said he, "my fears for you would make me as nothing. But I will be there, Gianetta; and may the Friend of the friendless give me strength in that hour! Even now my heart fails me; but, come what will, while I have a loaf to share, you and your mother shall never want. I will beg through the world for you." The day arrives, and the court assembles. The claim is stated, and the evidence given. And now the defence is called for-but none is made; not a syllable is uttered; and, after a pause and a consultation of some minutes, the judges are proceeding to give judgment, silence having been proclaimed in the court, when Lorenzo rises and thus addresses them. "Reverend signors. Young as I am, may I venture to speak before you? I would speak in behalf of one who has none else to help her; and I will not keep you long. "Much has been said; much on the sacred nature of the obligation-and we acknowledge it in its full force. Let it be fulfilled, and to the last letter. It is what we solicit, what we require. But to whom is the bag of gold to be delivered? What says the bond? Not to one-not to two-but to the three. Let the three stand forth and claim it." From that day, (for who can doubt the issue?) none were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the eloquent Lorenzo. Wealth followed fame; nor need I say how soon he sat at his marriage feast, or who sat beside him. XVII. A CHARACTER. ONE of two things Montrioli may have, At noon the king. Then comes the council board; * Ce pourroit être, says Bayle, la matière d'un joli problême: on pourroit examiner si cette fille avançoit, ou si elle retardoit le profit de ses auditeurs, en leur ca. chant son beau visage. Il y auroit cent choses à dire pour et contre là-dessus |