ousand
customs, is raised, the exotic of an hour, and (like the Tree and Dryad
of ancient fable) flourishes and withers with the single spirit that
protects it.

"Oh, Heaven, that I were a man!" exclaimed Angelo, who stood behind
Rienzi.

"Hear him, hear the boy," cried the Tribune; "out of the mouths of babes
speaketh wisdom! He wishes that he were a man, as ye are men, that
he might do as ye should do. Mark me,--I ride with these faithful few
through the quarter of the Colonna, before the fortress of your foe.
Three times before that fortress shall my trumpets sound; if at the
third blast ye come not, armed as befits ye--I say not all, but three,
but two, but one hundred of ye--I break up my wand of office, and the
world shall say one hundred and fifty robbers quelled the soul of Rome,
and crushed her magistrate and her laws!"

With those words he descended the stairs, and mounted his charger; the
populace gave way in silence, and their Tribune and his slender train
passed slowly on, and gradually vanished from the view of the increasing
crowd.

The Romans remained on the place, and after a pause, the demagogue
Baroncelli, who saw an opening to his ambition, addressed them. Though
not an eloquent nor gifted man, he had the art of uttering the most
popular commonplaces. And he knew the weak side of his audience, in
their vanity, indolence, and arrogant pride.

"Look you, my masters," said he, leaping up to the Place of the Lion;
"the Tribune talks bravely--he always did--but the monkey used the cat
for his chestnuts; he wants to thrust your paws into the fire; you will
not be so silly as to let him. The saints bless us! but the Tribune,
good man, gets a palace and has banquets, and bathes in a porphyry vase;
the more shame on him!--in which San Sylvester christened the Emperor
Constantine: all this is worth fighting for; but you, my masters, what
do you get except hard blows, and a stare at a holyday spectacle? Why,
if you beat these fellows, you will have another tax on the wine: that
will be your reward!"

"Hark!" cried Cecco, "there sounds the trumpet,--a pity he wanted to tax
us!"

"True," cried Baroncelli, "there sounds the trumpet; a silver trumpet,
by the Lord! Next week, if you help him out of the scrape, he'll have
a golden one. But go--why don't you move, my friends?--'tis but one
hundred and fifty mercenaries. True, they are devils to fight, clad in
armour from top to toe; but what then?--if they d