and
believed abroad, seemed undeniably visible to the foreign lords in the
majesty of his mien and the easy blandness of his address.

"My Lord Prefect," said he to a dark and sullen personage in black
velvet, the powerful and arrogant John di Vico, prefect of Rome, "we are
rejoiced to find so noble a guest at Rome: we must repay the courtesy by
surprising you in your own palace ere long;--nor will you, Signor (as he
turned to the envoy from Tivoli,) refuse us a shelter amidst your groves
and waterfalls ere the vintage be gathered. Methinks Rome, united with
sweet Tivoli, grows reconciled to the Muses. Your suit is carried,
Master Venoni: the council recognises its justice; but I reserved
the news for this holyday--you do not blame me, I trust." This was
whispered, with a half-affectionate frankness, to a worthy citizen, who,
finding himself amidst so many of the great, would have shrunk from
the notice of the Tribune; but it was the policy of Rienzi to pay an
especial and marked attention to those engaged in commercial pursuits.
As, after tarrying a moment or two with the merchant, he passed on, the
tall person of the old Colonna caught his eye--

"Signor," said he, with a profound inclination of his head, but with a
slight emphasis of tone, "you will not fail us this evening."

"Tribune--" began the Colonna.

"We receive no excuse," interrupted the Tribune, hastily, and passed on.

He halted for a few moments before a small group of men plainly attired,
who were watching him with intense interest; for they, too, were
scholars, and in Rienzi's rise they saw another evidence of that
wonderful and sudden power which intellect had begun to assume over
brute force. With these, as if abruptly mingled with congenial spirits,
the Tribune relaxed all the gravity of his brow. Happier, perhaps, his
living career--more unequivocal his posthumous renown--had his objects
as his tastes been theirs!

"Ah, carissime!" said he to one, whose arm he drew within his own,--"and
how proceeds thy interpretation of the old marbles?--half unravelled? I
rejoice to hear it! Confer with me as of old, I pray thee. Tomorrow--no,
nor the day after, but next week--we will have a tranquil evening. Dear
poet, your ode transported me to the days of Horace; yet, methinks, we
do wrong to reject the vernacular for the Latin. You shake your head?
Well, Petrarch thinks with you: his great epic moves with the stride
of a giant--so I hear from his frien