_Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes. By the Author of "Eugene Aram,"
"Last Days of Pompeii," &c. &c. Two Volumes in one. Philadelphia:
Republished by E. L. Carey and A. Hart._
We have long learned to reverence the fine intellect of Bulwer. We
take up any production of his pen with a positive certainty that, in
reading it, the wildest passions of our nature, the most profound of
our thoughts, the brightest visions of our fancy, and the most
ennobling and lofty of our aspirations will, in due turn, be enkindled
within us. We feel sure of rising from the perusal a wiser if not a
better man. In no instance are we deceived. From the brief Tale--from
the "Monos and Daimonos" of the author--to his most ponderous and
labored novels--all is richly, and glowingly intellectual--all is
energetic, or astute, or brilliant, or profound. There _may_ be men
now living who possess the power of Bulwer--but it is quite evident
that very few have made that power so palpably manifest. Indeed we
know of _none_. Viewing him as a novelist--a point of view exceedingly
unfavorable (if we hold to the common acceptation of "the novel") for
a proper contemplation of his genius--he is unsurpassed by any writer
living or dead. Why should we hesitate to say this, feeling, as we do,
thoroughly persuaded of its truth. Scott has excelled him in _many_
points, and "The Bride of Lammormuir" is a better book than any
individual work by the author of Pelham--"Ivanhoe" is, perhaps, equal
to any. Descending to particulars, D'Israeli has a more brilliant, a
more lofty, and a more delicate (we do not say a _wilder_)
imagination. Lady Dacre has written Ellen Wareham, a more forcible
tale of Passion. In some species of wit Theodore Hook rivals, and in
broad humor our own Paulding surpasses him. The writer of "Godolphin"
equals him in energy. Banim is a better sketcher of character. Hope is
a richer colorist. Captain Trelawney is as original--Moore is as
fanciful, and Horace Smith is as learned. But who is there uniting in
one person the imagination, the passion, the humor, the energy, the
knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, the
fancy and the learning of Edward Lytton Bulwer? In a vivid wit--in
profundity and a Gothic massiveness of thought--in style--in a calm
certainty and definitiveness of purpose--in industry--and above all in
the power of controlling and regulating by volition his illimitable
faculties of mind, he is unequalled--he is unapproached.
As Rienzi is the last, so it is the best novel of Bulwer. In the
Preface we are informed that the work was commenced two years ago at
Rome, but abandoned upon the author's removing to Naples, for the
"Last days of Pompeii"--a subject requiring, more than Rienzi, the
advantage of a personal residence within reach of the scenes
described. The idea of the present work, however, was never dismissed
from the writer's mind, and soon after the publication of "Pompeii" he
resumed his original undertaking. We are told that having had occasion
to look into the original authorities whence are derived all the
accounts of modern historians touching Rienzi, Mr. B. was induced to
believe that no just picture of the Life or Times of that most
remarkable man was at present in the hands of the people. Under this
impression the novelist had at first meditated a work of History
rather than of Fiction. We doubt, however, whether the spirit of the
author's intention is not better fulfilled as it is. He has adhered
with scrupulous fidelity to all the main events in the _public_ life
of his hero; and by means of the relief afforded through the
personages of pure romance which form the filling in of the picture,
he has been enabled more fully to develop the _private_ character of
the noble Roman. The reader may indeed be startled at the vast
difference between the Rienzi of Mr. Bulwer, and the Rienzi of
Sismondi, of Gibbon, and of Miss Mitford. But by neither of the two
latter are we disposed to swear--and of Sismondi's impartiality we can
at no moment be certain. Mr. B., moreover, very justly observes that
as, in the work before us, all the _acts_ are given from which is
derived his interpretation of the principal agent, the public, having
sufficient data for its own judgment, may fashion an opinion for
itself.
Generally, the true chronology of Rienzi's life is preserved. In
regard to the story--or that chain of fictitious incident usually
binding up together the constituent parts of a Romance--there is very
little of it in the book. This follows necessarily from the character
of the composition--which is essentially Epic rather than Dramatic.
The author's apology seems to us therefore supererogative when he says
that a work which takes for its subject the crimes and errors of a
nation and which ventures to seek the actual and the real in the
highest stage of action or passion can rarely adopt with advantage the
melo-dramatic effects produced by a vulgar mystery. In his pictures of
the Roman populace, and in those of the Roman nobles of the fourteenth
century--pictures full at all times of an enthralling interest--Mr. B.
professes to have followed literally the descriptions left to us.
Miss Mitford's Rienzi will of course be remembered in reading that of
Bulwer. There is however but one point of coincidence--a love-intrigue
between a relative of the hero and one of the party of the nobles.
This, it will be recollected, forms the basis of the plot of Miss
{198} M. In the Rienzi of Bulwer, it is an Episode not affecting in
any manner either the story itself, or the destinies of the Tribune.
It is by no means our intention to give an analysis of the volume
before us. Every person who reads at all will read Rienzi, and indeed
the book is already in the hands of many millions of people. Any
thing, therefore, like our usual custom of a digest of the narrative
would be superfluous. The principal characters who figure in the novel
are Rienzi himself--his brother, whose slaughter by a noble at the
commencement of the story, is the immediate cause of Rienzi's change
of temper and consequent exaltation--Adrian di Castello, a young noble
of the family of Colonna but attached to the cause of the
people--Martino di Porto the chief of the house of the Orsini--Stephen
Colonna, the chief of the house of the Colonna--Walter de Montreal, a
gentleman of Provence, a knight of St. John, and one of the formidable
freebooters who at the head of large "Companies" invaded states and
pillaged towns at the period of Rienzi's Revolution--Pandulfo di Guido
a student, whom, under the appellation of Pandolficcio di Guido,
Gibbon styles "the most virtuous citizen of Rome"--Cecco del Vecchio a
smith--Giles D'Albornoz of the royal race of Arragon--Petrarch the
poet, and the friend of Rienzi--Angelo Villani--Irene, the sister of
the Tribune and betrothed to Adrian di Castello--Nina, Rienzi's
wife--and Adeline, the mistress of Walter de Montreal.
But as was said before, we should err radically if we regard Rienzi
altogether in the light of Romance. Undoubtedly as such--as a fiction,
and coming under the title of a novel, it is a glorious, a wonderful
conception, and not the less wonderfully and gloriously carried out.
What else could we say of a book over which the mind so delightedly
lingers in perusal? In its delineations of passion and character--in
the fine blending and contrasting of its incidents--in the rich and
brilliant tints of its feudal paintings--in a pervading air of
chivalry, and grace, and sentiment--in all that can throw a charm over
the pages of Romance, the last novel of Bulwer is equal, if not
superior, to any of his former productions. Still we should look at
the work in a different point of view. It is History. We hesitate not
to say that it is History in its truest--in its only true, proper, and
philosophical garb. Sismondi's works--were not. There is no greater
error than dignifying with the name of History a tissue of dates and
details, though the dates be ordinarily correct, and the details
indisputably true. Not even with the aid of acute comment will such a
tissue satisfy our individual notions of History. To the effect let us
look--to the impression rather than to the seal. And how very seldom
is any definite impression left upon the mind of the historical
reader! How few bear away--even from the pages of Gibbon--Rome and the
Romans. Vastly different was the genius of Niebuhr--than whom no man
possessed a more discriminative understanding of the uses and the
purposes of the pen of the historiographer. But we digress. Bearing in
mind that "to contemplate"--_ιςορειν_[1]--should and must be allowed a
more noble and a more expansive acceptation than has been usually
given it, we shall often discover in Fiction the essential spirit and
vitality of Historic Truth--while Truth itself, in many a dull and
lumbering Archive, shall be found guilty of all the inefficiency of
Fiction.
[Footnote 1: History, from _ιςορειν_, to contemplate, seems, among the
Greeks, to have embraced not only the knowledge of past events, but
also Mythology, Esopian, and Milesian fables, _Romance_, Tragedy and
Comedy. But our business is with things, not words.]
Rienzi, then, is History. But there are other aspects in which it may
be regarded with advantage. Let us survey it as a profound and lucid
exposition of the _morale_ of Government--of the Philosophies of Rule
and Misrule--of the absolute incompatibility of Freedom and
Ignorance--Tyranny in the few and Virtue in the many. Let us consider
it as something akin to direct evidence that a people is not a mob,
nor a mob a people, nor a mob's idol the idol of a people--that in a
nation's self is the only security for a nation--and that it is
absolutely necessary to model upon the _character_ of the governed,
the machinery, whether simple or complex, of the governmental
legislation.
It is proper--we are persuaded--that Rienzi should be held up in these
many different points of view, if we desire fully to appreciate its
own merits and the talents of Mr. Bulwer. But regard it as we will, it
is an extraordinary work--and one which leaves nothing farther to
accomplish in its own particular region. It is vastly superior to the
"Last Days of Pompeii"--more rich--more glowing, and more vigorous.
With all and more than all the distinguishing merits of its noble
predecessor, it has none of its _chilliness_--none of that platitude
which (it would not be difficult to say why) is the inevitable result
of every attempt at infusing warmth among the marble wildernesses, and
vitality into the statue-like existences, of the too-distantly
antique.
We will conclude our notice of Rienzi with an Extract. We choose it
not with any view of commending it above others--for the book has many
equally good and some better--but to give our readers--such of them as
have not yet seen the novel, an opportunity of comparing the passage
with some similar things in Boccaccio. We may as well say that in all
which constitutes good writing the Englishman is infinitely the
superior. What we select is Chapter V, of the sixth Book. Irene, the
betrothed of the noble Roman Adrian di Castello, being in Florence
during the time of the Great Plague, is sought by her lover at the
peril of his life. Overpowered by a fever he meets with Irene--but his
delirium prevents a recognition. She conveys him to one of the
deserted mansions, and officiates as his nurse. Having thrown aside
her mantle, under the impression that it retained the infection of the
Pestilence, it is found and worn by another.