Adrian’s eyes were strained towards the towers of the Capitol, distinguished by the flames from the spires and domes around;—­senseless, and clasped to his guardian breast, Irene was happily unconscious of the horrors of the time.

“They dare not—­they dare not,” said the brave Colonna, “touch a hair of that sacred head!—­if Rienzi fall, the liberties of Rome fall for ever!  As those towers that surmount the flames, the pride and monument of Rome, he shall rise above the dangers of the hour.  Behold, still unscathed amidst the raging element, the Capitol itself is his emblem!”

Scarce had he spoken, when a vast volume of smoke obscured the fires afar off, a dull crash (deadened by the distance) travelled to his ear, and the next moment, the towers on which he gazed had vanished from the scene, and one intense and sullen glare seemed to settle over the atmosphere,—­making all Rome itself the funeral pyre of the last of the Roman tribunes!

The End

Appendix I. Some Remarks on the Life and Character of Rienzi.

The principal authority from which historians have taken their account of the life and times of Rienzi is a very curious biography, by some unknown contemporary; and this, which is in the Roman patois of the time, has been rendered not quite unfamiliar to the French and English reader by the work of Pere du Cerceau, called “Conjuration de Nicolas Gabrini, dit de Rienzi,” (See for a specimen of the singular blunders of the Frenchman’s work, Appendix ii.) which has at once pillaged and deformed the Roman biographer.  The biography I refer to was published (and the errors of the former editions revised) by Muratori in his great collection; and has lately been reprinted separately in an improved text, accompanied by notes of much discrimination and scholastic taste, and a comment upon that celebrated poem of Petrarch, “Spirito Gentil,” which the majority of Italian critics have concurred in considering addressed to Rienzi, in spite of the ingenious arguments to the contrary by the Abbe de Sade.

This biography has been generally lauded for its rare impartiality.  And the author does, indeed, praise and blame alike with a most singular appearance of stolid candour.  The work, in truth, is one of those not uncommon proofs, of which Boswell’s “Johnson” is the most striking, that a very valuable book may be written by a very silly man.  The biographer of Rienzi appears more like the historian of Rienzi’s clothes, so minute is he on all details of their colour and quality—­so silent is he upon everything that could throw light upon the motives of their wearer.  In fact, granting the writer every desire to be impartial, he is too foolish to be so.  It requires some cleverness to judge accurately of a very clever man in very difficult circumstances; and the worthy biographer is utterly