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DURING the latter half of the 16th century, an Englishman, then in his earliest manhood, spent some months at Venice. He was one of those (so frequently met with in romance, and so seldom in history) who are equally remarkable for almost every bodily and mental accomplishment. Noble, beautiful, brave, learned, eloquent, and a poet, skilful in arms, and perfect in all courtly courtesies,—the youthful cavalier was the ornament of the society in which he mingled, and the glory of the country which gave him birth. The splendor of his appearance, the readiness and gracefulness of his discourse, and the exalted and heroic tone of feeling which shone out through every word and gesture, procured him friendship and respect wherever he travelled; and at Venice he was speedily acquainted with nearly all the persons in that city, whom station or talents rendered most distinguished. Among these, the Englishman looked with peculiar curiosity at the renowned Statesman and General, Adrian Monteco. He was then past the prime of life; and holding the most important place in the Council of Ten, was considered, by foreigners and Venetians, as the foremost Noble of the Republic. He was a man of a harsh but decided expression of lip, with a dark and subtle eye; a brow always compressed, and an address somewhat ostentatiously open. He habitually stooped in the shoulders, and kept his 6 ATHENEUM, VOL. 1, 3d series.

eyes bent towards the ground; but when he looked up, men felt that it was something other than timidity which ordinarily induced him to withdraw his face from observation. To the young stranger, whether from the liking which he professed, or, as some suspected, though none hinted, from the importance of his name and personal character, Monteco was studiously attentive. They were discoursing together, one sultry afternoon, in the palace of the Venetian, on the questions of state policy referring to the situation of the Ocean Commonwealth. Several senators and leaders were present, and joined occasionally in the conversation; and, in one corner of the vast saloon, a pale and sickly-looking youth, the only son of Monteco, was seated at a little table, engaged in copying papers for his father. The dialogue of the Englishman and his Italian friend turned, after some time, on the disputes between the Roman See and the Venetian Government; and the stranger mentioned the name of the celebrated Father Paul, and expressed an anxious desire to see him; Monteco instantly turned, and called to his son, by the name of "Lorenzo !" The youth started up with an appearance of terror; but, pausing for an instant to dispose of his papers with some regularity, his father's wrath burst forth in the exclamation-"Haste, whelp! Did not you hear me call you?" The lad

The setting

came forward, trembling, and received instruments, apparently of far greater his parent's commands to accompany value than agreed with the general the young foreigner to the cell of the poverty of the room, and of its masServite Monk, the illustrious antago- ter. The broad and strongly-marked nist of the Papacy. The youth bow- forehead, and steady penetrating ed low, and faltered out his readiness glance of the Monk, were all that to obey. He then turned towards the gave dignity to a meagre and wasted door; and the Englishman, in follow- form, and to garments which, originaling him, perceived that he was not ly poor, had long lost even the homeonly of dwarfish stature, but miserably ly grace of good preservation. The and hopelessly deformed. They en- Dwarf bowed low to Paul, who held tered a gondola; and there was time out his hand to him; but Lorenzo, and opportunity for the stranger to instead of clasping it as an equal, examine Lorenzo's face. It was deli- kissed it like a subject; and when he cately, and almost beautifully formed; had named the Englishman to the but the dead paleness, the eyes which Monk, retired to the back of the looked red with sorrow, and the brow apartment, where scarcely any light and lip which seemed to have been long could penetrate, and there remained and often convulsed by suffering, ren- wrapped in his cloak, and with his dered the first impression of the coun- arms crossed upon his breast. The tenance extremely painful. When Servite and the Cavalier stood togeasked by his companion if he was in- ther in the recess of a window, where timate with Father Paul, he replied, the lattice was thrown open to admit with an appearance of anxious cour- the breezes from the sea, that stretchtesy, that he had often spent whole ed away to the horizon. days in the cell of the poor Monk. "I sun had robed it, as a conqueror for marvel," said the Englishman, "that his momentary triumph, in regal gold you have not rather conversed with and purple. The gentle waves sparhim in the Monteco Palace." The kled like jewels as they swelled and Dwarf started, but replied, coldly, that broke; and the sea-bird, which flew the Father did not love to leave his over the waters, seemed turned for an home. "Yet, Master Lorenzo, I instant, while it shot across the radishould conceive he hath less to make ant pathway of the sunbeams, into that his home delightful than you find in glorious dove which descended of old yours." The foreigner had never seen over the bosom of Jordan. The light, Adrian Monteco but in public, and tinted as if it had passed through knew nothing of his family circum- some jewelled casement in the sapstances, except that Lorenzo had no phire ramparts of the skies, illumined mother living; and he went on to say the bent frame and upturned counteto the Dwarf, "Have you not broth- nance of the priest, and the gallant ers or sisters?"" Your being of an- figure and youthful beauty of the other land, Sir Knight, excuses you courtly soldier, and showed, in all for not having heard what hath been their contrasted singularity, the two said in all the streets of Venice, that distinguished men who, alike bold, but for me my father is without a son, able, and accomplished, though in and that my only sister is in a Roman such different fashions, were each inconvent." The Cavalier repented that teresting to the other, perhaps more he had struck a string which seemed than any among all their great conto jar at the slightest touch. But he temporaries. The Monk looked had no time to repair the error, for earnestly, almost curiously, at his the gondola stopped, and in a few mo- companion for some seconds; and ments he found himself in the small then said: and mean apartment of Father Paul.

In his chamber he had little furniture, except books and philosophical

"Aye, Sir, methinks I can see in that countenance the traces of the studies and the wisdom which fame

has so loudly reported of. But there is also much which agrees better with this rich mantle and these glittering slashes than with the doctor's gown." The youth seemed surprised at the confidence of such an address; but answered: "You would not interdict, good Father, something of that courtly splendor and soldierly array, which are common among the noble and the warlike?"

"No, my son," said the Monk; "but I may well wonder to see a stripling, who is both learned and loverlike, both an accomplished disputant in the schools, and a tried cavalier in the camp."

"If all that your kindness supposes were true, is it not even such a character which chivalry demands from men; though, alas! it too often finds them bankrupt debtors?"

"Ah, my son! that fantastic dream of chivalry is not for our century. It was the rainbow seen amid the morning mist, which is beheld no more at noon; but we have well exchanged it for the all-cheering and all-maturing splendor of the mid-day sun!"

"Say, rather, that chivalry belongs not to age or country; but, like that blessed sun, extends its benefits to all, and never wearies in its course."

"Such is not my faith; and I am well persuaded that some romancer of a subtle, yet a solemn wit, might exhibit the choicest attributes that belong to your mystery and calling of chivalry, embodied in the person of a modern, and surrounded by all the circumstances of our day, so as to generate the contempt no less than the delight of all men. And therein would he, at the same time, shadow forth a larger meaning, and manifest the unceasing progress of the world through and out of its ancient modes of thought. Methinks, the grave and stately humor of the Spaniard, the cloak and mask of his facetiousness, point him out as the knight destined to slay your giant."

"Now, heaven forbid!" said the Englishman, "for I perceive that you apprehend the chivalry whereof I am

an unworthy devotee, to mean a certain vain and frivolous attention to the forms and names, the symbols and ceremonies, and not to include, yea, to require, as the one necessary element, a living spirit of truth and honor. What is it, in fact, but the ultimate blossom, and finer fragrance of all that is excellent in man? To be a perfect knight, according to the old exemplars of virtue, demands learning, eloquence, piety, truth and justice, courage and charity, the mind to draw the sword in a good cause, and the hand to wield it with vigor !"

Nay," responded the Monk with a faint smile, "I know not how large a domain, and how brilliant a diadem, you would claim for this queen whom you serve, this fair fancy. I presume you are ready to do battle with sword and shield, and to challenge me to the combat in her quarrel. I am practised in no such contests, and must decline perilling my poor gown against that silken jerkin of yours.”

"Father, you may well believe that I should prefer to strike a hundred strokes in your defence, than to make one against you. But if you say that I would die on the instant for my faith, in the possibility of chivalrous perfection, I trust that you but speak the truth. Give me but a good cause, and a worthy enemy, and I care little how soon the death-blow may come to Philip Sidney."

"Ah! my young friend, is it indeed thus? Now, I warrant that you will have share in the first broil for the redress of injuries into which your generous heart can drag your strong hand, and that gay sword, which I saw you touch just now, when you spoke of a just cause, and a bold antagonist."

"Even so, Father; I would risk much of peril to my person for the chance of rescuing misery or overthrowing oppression."

"Alas!" said the Monk, looking at him affectionately, "if such is to be your course in such times as these, your fate will, indeed, be soon and bloody. But if the world is to lose

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