But this was for my father's faith Proud of Persecution's rage; Their belief with blood have seal'd; There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, For in these limbs its teeth remain, They chain'd us each to a column stone, But even these at length grew cold. A grating sound-not full and free I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do-and did my bestAnd each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, For him my soul was sorely moved: (When day was beautiful to me Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun! And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others' ills, The other was as pure of mind, But form'd to combat with his kind; With joy:-but not in chains to pine: And so perchance in sooth did mine: Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; And then the very rock hath rock'd, I said my nearer brother pined, I might have spared my idle prayer- But he, the favourite and the flower, He faded, and so calm and meek, A little hope my own to raise, I listen'd, but I could not hear- I call'd, and thought I heard a sound- I could not die, I had no earthly hope but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I had no thought, no feeling-none- There were no stars-no earth-no time- Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! A light broke in upon my brain,— The sweetest song ear ever heard, But then by dull degrees came back I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more: Or broke its cage to perch on mine, Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! For-Heaven forgive that thought! the while I sometimes deem'd that it might be A single cloud on a sunny day, A kind of change came in my fate, My keepers grew compassionate; I know not what had made them so, My brothers' graves without a sod; I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me: No child-no sire-no kin had I, No partner in my misery; I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad; To my barr'd windows, and to bend I saw them-and they were the same, A small green isle, it seem'd no more, The fish swam by the castle wall, It might be months, or years, or days, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free, I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair. And thus when they appear'd at last, THE BAG OF GOLD. 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 up, if we may believe the tradition there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a grand-master 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 Bologna, stood a little chapel, in which a lamp was always burning before a picture of the Virgin-a picture of great antiquity, the work of some Greek artist. 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-trellis, were supplied with a flagon of Aleatico by 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 39 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 tomorrow. 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 Venetian 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 gaily. "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." fully 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 to-morrow! Now Gianetta had a lover; and he was a student of the law, a young man of great pro "Perhaps you will favour us with an ac- mise, Lorenzo Martelli. He had studied long knowledgment." "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? Wil 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 assistance can he be? He has just taken his place at 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 |