CHAPTER IV

ADVENTURES OF CELLINI

Cellini went back to the Holy City and resumed his work as a goldsmith. He was graciously received in audience by the pope, who was overjoyed at the sight of him. Cellini was, on the contrary, greatly downcast, and confessed that having received no payment for his trouble in breaking up the papal jewels he had appropriated a portion of the molten gold to indemnify himself; and he now sought absolution which the priests had hitherto refused him. The pope readily forgave him, expressing his concern that he had had no reward and now freely making him a present of what he had already abstracted; he also gave him a valuable commission, entrusting him with a magnificent diamond and other jewels to set in a gold button for the pontifical cope. In this he succeeded admirably and produced a piece of the most exquisite art, according to Vasari, the contemporary critic. But he stirred up the jealousy of the pope’s favourite gentleman of the bedchamber, who protested that too much favour was shown to this presumptuous young man. Yet Cellini continued to retain the pope’s good graces, and was more and more employed in the stamping of medals and coins for the papal mint, and of one fine piece it was said that His Holiness might boast that he possessed a coin superior to that struck for any Roman emperor.

About this time Cellini got into serious trouble by attacking and engaging in a duel with one of the city guard who had murdered his brother in a brawl. He was not immediately arrested, and a gentleman informed him that the pope knew all that had happened, but that His Holiness was very much his friend and desired him to go on with his business without giving himself any uneasiness. Then his shop was broken into by a thief just as he was in possession of a great part of the pope’s jewels, but fortunately they were not taken, yet the pope was told that the story of the robbery was fabricated to explain the disappearance of the property. Cellini, however, promptly repaired to the Vatican and produced the jewels, saying, “Holy Father, they are all here, not one missing,” and His Holiness replied with a serene brow, “Then you are indeed welcome.”

For the rest of Clement’s pontificate the relations between him and Cellini varied; now the jeweller was in high favour, now in disgrace. Jealous rivals maligned him; Cellini retorted by personal attack. His rash hands readily obeyed his quick temper; he struck down an enemy wherever he met him and then fled to escape just consequences. Throughout he laboured assiduously at his art. One of his finest works was a gold chalice for the pope and he was employed to make the stamp for the Roman mint, and it is agreed that his coins were the finest produced. Then a great change came over his fortunes; Pope Clement VII died and was succeeded by Paul III, a Farnese and no friend to Cellini, who had also incurred the bitter enmity of one Pier Luigi, the new pope’s nephew. Benvenuto went wrong at once by following up an old quarrel with another jeweller, Pompeo, who had been in the service of Clement and constantly at variance with Cellini. One day Pompeo came to his shop, Cellini relates, and stopping in front of the door, “whilst you might say a couple of Ave Marias, began to laugh in my face; and when he went off his comrades fell a laughing likewise, shook their heads and made many gestures in derision and defiance of me.” Cellini, hot-headed as usual, was easily spurred on by his friends to retaliate; he followed Pompeo down the street and met him as he came out of a shop where he had been boasting of having bullied Cellini, who continues: “I thereupon clapped my hand to a sharp dagger and laid hold of him by the throat so quickly and with such presence of mind that there was no one who could defend him. I pulled him towards me to give him a blow in front but he turned his face about through excess of terror so that I wounded him exactly under the ear; and upon my repeating my blow he fell down dead. It had never been my intention to kill him but blows are not always under command.”

Cellini found protectors. Cardinal Cornaro, a Venetian, sent out a party of soldiers to bring him safely to his house. At the same time Cardinal de Medicis proposed to befriend him but Cornaro angrily refused to part with Cellini, vowing that he was as proper a person to take care of him as De Medicis. At that time the new pope, Paul III, came into power and called for Cellini, meaning to employ him again at the mint. They told Paul that Cellini had absconded for having killed one Pompeo in a fray, but the pope would not interfere, declaring that “men who are masters in their profession like Benvenuto should not be subject to the laws, but he less than any other, for I am sensible that he was right in the whole affair. I have often heard of Benvenuto’s provocation, so let a safe conduct be made out and that will secure him from all manner of danger.” After that Cellini resumed his business and was again employed by the pope’s order at the mint.

He was not, however, suffered to escape the vengeance of Pompeo’s relations. A daughter of the murdered man had married a natural son of Pier Luigi, the pope’s nephew, an unscrupulous but powerful person who readily promised to have Cellini arrested. Although “he was lavish of demonstrations of kindness to me,” says Benvenuto, “he had at the same time given orders to the captain of the city guard to seize me or get somebody to assassinate me.” Of the two courses the latter was chosen, and a cut-throat Corsican soldier was engaged to do the work, who gave it out that “he would make no more of it than swallowing a new laid egg.” Cellini was informed of his danger and kept a constant look-out, going about always well accompanied and armed with a coat of mail which he had received permission from the government to wear. When they met face to face, Cellini told the soldier that he had to deal with one who would sell his life very dear. “All this while,” says Cellini, “I stood upon my guard with a stern and watchful eye and we both changed colour. By this time a crowd was gathered round us ... so that he had not the spirit to attack me.” Indeed the bravo afterwards assured Cellini that he had nothing more to fear from him, but that he would for the future consider him as a brother.

Pier Luigi, foiled in the assassination planned, gave orders on his own authority that Cellini should be taken into custody, whereupon the goldsmith took post the same night for Florence, where he was well received by Duke Alessandro de Medicis, who employed him in the mint until the pope sent him an ample safe conduct and ordered him to return to Rome to clear himself of the charge of murder. The duke advised him to remain in Florence, but Cellini, having a shop open in the Holy City, and a staff of workmen, resolved to venture back. He had no sooner arrived than the city guard fell upon him but after a scuffle left him in peace, upon his production of the safe conduct. Later he was called upon to give himself up as a prisoner, as a matter of form, so as to qualify for pardon, but the pope, upon his petition, fully forgave him. A terrible illness now attacked him, from which he did not recover until he returned to his native air of Florence, where he remained for some time, following his business, going farther afield into France and encountering many curious adventures. Once more he found himself in Rome and was to be subjected to a series of grievous trials quite unforeseen by him, and due to the persistent malignity of his enemies. He was again to make the acquaintance of the interior of the castle of St. Angelo, and this time painfully and ingloriously, as a helpless and much persecuted prisoner.

Among the workmen in his employment was a native of Perugia whom he had greatly trusted and liberally paid. The ungrateful wretch suddenly left his service at a most inconvenient time and trumped up a false charge against his master, giving information to Luigi that Cellini had detained a large portion of the jewels entrusted to him by Clement VII during the siege. The crime imputed to Cellini was that when he had removed the precious stones from their settings, he had sewn them up in his own clothes and subsequently disposed of them for 80,000 crowns. This nefarious transaction was vouched for by the treacherous journeyman, who declared that Cellini had confided to him that he held the jewels securely concealed in his shop. Luigi, a man of vicious, dissipated habits, was consumed with greed, and going to the pope obtained a promise from him of the reversion of the 80,000 crowns when recovered from Cellini, who was to be forthwith arrested and examined. When the captain of the city guard arrived and took him in charge as the pope’s prisoner, Cellini protested, “You mistake your man.” “By no means,” replied the captain, “you are the ingenious artist Benvenuto, I know you very well and have orders to conduct you to St. Angelo, where noblemen and men of genius like yourself are confined.” He was accordingly carried there and brought before three judges appointed to bring the affair to an issue. They detailed the charge as given above, commanding him either to find the jewels themselves or the value of them, after which he would be set at large. Cellini indignantly repudiated the charge, protesting that although he had resided for twenty years in Rome he had never before been imprisoned, either in the castle or elsewhere. Here the governor interposed pertinently; “Yet you have killed men enough in your time.” Cellini retorted that he had always acted in self-defence or in anticipation of murderous attack and proceeded with his defence. It was simple and very much to the point; he invited the judges to examine the books wherein would be found a full list of the papal jewels and called upon them to compare it with the valuables in possession. He reminded them that these registers had always been kept with extreme accuracy and that the comparison he suggested would result in his complete acquittal. At the same time, he adverted to his services during the siege, pointing out that but for him the Imperialists would have gained possession of the castle when they first arrived, and recalling his wounding of the Prince of Orange.

In the end Cellini was entirely exonerated and it was clearly shown that he could not have appropriated any of the pope’s jewels, for not a single one was missing. The judges accordingly absolved him, and he was entitled to immediate release. Unhappily, the king of France, Francis I, had heard that Cellini had been committed unjustly to durance, and pleaded for his prompt enlargement. The pope refused, and bade the king to give himself no further concern about such a turbulent and troublesome fellow; that Cellini was kept in prison for committing murder and atrocious crimes. The king still pressed his claim, insisting that Cellini was now in his service and required that he should be sent to him. But the pope held on to him, fearing that Cellini would make an exposure upon reaching France, after his arbitrary illegal detention.

He was not, however, treated with much severity. The constable of the castle was a fellow countryman, Ugolino, and this worthy Florentine put him on his parole, suffering him to go freely throughout the castle. Neither was Cellini debarred from working at his business; his shop remained open in the city and his servants came and went, seeking and carrying out his instructions. But a fellow prisoner pestered him with insidious and dishonourable counsels, and urged that while imprisoned he was not bound to keep his word. Cellini declined to be led astray, but was next invited to explain how he would proceed if kept a close prisoner and not upon his parole. Full of vain glory, he boasted that he could open any lock whatsoever, and especially those of St. Angelo, which he could force as easily as he could eat a bit of cheese. His companion laughed at his pretensions and Cellini, to make them good, showed him how to fabricate false keys. The lesson was so quickly learned that the monk copied them in some wax which he stole from the goldsmith who had been using it to make models of little figures and specimens. The attempt to counterfeit keys fell into the hands of the governor of the castle, who blamed Cellini and withdrew from him the privilege of free passage which he had hitherto enjoyed. Cellini, resenting this more rigorous treatment, so unjustly imposed, began to think seriously whether he could not compass escape. He set to work in the conventional manner with the manufacture of a rope to help him in his descent from the high tower of his prison house. He ordered his servant to bring him fresh sheets and did not return the soiled ones, when asked for them, replying that he had given them to the poorer soldiers of the garrison, who must not be betrayed or they would be committed to the galleys. This process being frequently repeated, in due course he provided a great length of rope sufficient to reach from the top to the bottom of the great tower.

At this stage his difficulties were multiplied by the constable, with whom he had a discussion, which ended in his being more closely confined. This Ugolino was subject to a strange affection at a certain period of the year. He went completely out of his mind and was the prey of extraordinary delusions. At one time he thought he had been metamorphosed into a pitcher of oil; at another he fancied he was a frog and jumped about; again, he firmly believed he was dead, and it became necessary to humour him by mock burial. The next mad notion was that he had been changed into a bat, and he made gestures with his hands and moved his body as if he were going to fly. He greatly delighted in a visit from Cellini, who talked with him for hours indulging all his crazy whims. Once he asked his prisoner whether he ever wanted to fly and was answered in the affirmative. Cellini said that he had studied the methods of the several creatures that took wing, and believed that he could imitate a bat. This fitted in with the constable’s mad fancy, and he at once agreed that Cellini could fly if he tried. “But I hope you won’t try,” added the governor disconsolately, “I should like to see it but the pope has enjoined me to watch over you with the utmost care, and I know that you have the cunning of the devil, and would avail yourself of the opportunity to make your escape. I am resolved to keep you locked up with a hundred keys that you may not slip out of my hands.” This did not suit Cellini and he besought the governor to make his condition no worse than it had been, but all to no purpose, and he was carried off into the closest confinement.

The prisoner was goaded now into greater determination to get away. He completed his rope and then turned his attention to the door of his cell chamber. This was protected by iron plates fastened in with nails, to extract which Cellini used a pair of pincers he had purloined from the carpenter and cooper of the castle. The holes thus made he filled in with a paste made of rusty iron filings mixed with wax, but two nails, one at the top and one at the bottom, he drove in a short way to keep each plate in its place. All his tools and the nails he extracted he secreted in the tick of his bed which he allowed no one to touch, declaring that they were unworthy to handle any of his belongings. He also swept out his room himself, for the same reason, that no one should discover what he was about. When he threatened those who would have interfered with his bed and they reported him to the constable, the latter took Cellini’s part. There was no fear of his prisoner’s escape, he said, if he got out of the castle, for he (Ugolino) as the bat flew so well, that he would be sure to catch up with the fugitive. But Cellini made short work of the descent, only to find that two newly built walls shut in the inner gate and he must surmount them before he went free. A sentinel approached at the last moment, but sheered off at the sight of Cellini’s dagger and his murderous looks. He was now on the top of the last wall and hitching his rope to the niched battlement he began to let himself down. He relates: “Whether it was preparing to give a leap or whether my hands had lost their power, I do not know, but being unable to hold on any longer I fell and in falling struck my head and became quite insensible.

“When I recovered after an hour and a half as nearly as I could guess, the day was beginning to break and the cool breeze that precedes the rising of the sun brought me to myself, but I had not yet regained my senses and I conceived the strange notion that I had been beheaded and was then in purgatory.... I clapped my hands to my head and found them all bloody, and I found that my leg was broken, three inches above the heel. The hurt had been caused by the scabbard of my dagger, which I now threw away and cutting the part of my rope of sheeting that still remained, I bandaged my leg as well as I could. I then crept on my hands and knees towards the gate, and after travelling some five hundred paces at last effected my egress,” from the castle enclosure and entered the city.

Two or three great mastiffs ran up and worried him but he beat them off with his dagger and crawled on. It was now broad daylight and he happened upon a water carrier who, at his entreaty, lifted him on his ass’s back and took him as far as the steps of St. Peter’s. Here he was fortunately found by a servant of his friend Cardinal Cornaro, who conveyed the news to his master and was desired to bring the wounded man into the cardinal’s apartments, where he was put to bed and a surgeon summoned. His leg was set and he was bled, then the cardinal hastened to the Vatican to intercede for Cellini with the pope. Another friend accompanied him. They were well received; “I know what you want,” cried the pope. “I am concerned to hear of Benvenuto’s sufferings, but bid him take care of his health and when he is thoroughly recovered it shall be my study to make him some amends for his past sufferings.” Only the constable of the castle made a great outcry and declared that he would be disgraced if his prisoner were not sent back to him, adding that Cellini had promised on his honour not to fly away and he had flown notwithstanding.

The pope was still well disposed, however. “This Benvenuto is a brave fellow,” he said, “and his exploit is very extraordinary. Yet when I was a young man I descended from the very same place.” This was true enough. He had himself been a prisoner in the castle of St. Angelo, confined by Pope Alexander VI, for forging a papal brief, and fully expected sentence of death. But execution was delayed and Farnese (Paul III) bribed some of his guard to put him into a basket and let him down from the tower.

Still Cellini was the hero of the hour. Numbers of the nobility and gentlefolk called upon him and honoured him as a man that had performed miracles. He writes: “Some of them made me promises, whilst others made me presents.” One enemy was still bitter and implacable. This was Pier Luigi, now duke of Parma, who strongly opposed his pardon, protesting that if this man were liberated, he would do something still more daring for he was “one of the boldest and most audacious of mortals.” At this time Cardinal Cornaro was intriguing to get a bishopric for one of his gentlemen, and the pope was willing to make a bargain with him,—the bishopric in exchange for Cellini, “and so,” says Cellini, “I was sold by a Venetian cardinal to a Roman of the Farnese family, both of whom in so doing violated the most sacred laws.” Cellini was on the point of getting himself smuggled out of Rome concealed inside a mattress, but he was suddenly seized by the pope’s order, and Cardinal Cornaro’s consent, and carried first to the Tor di Nona and lodged in the place assigned to condemned criminals; thence he was conveyed back to the castle in a litter, on account of his broken leg, and was very civilly treated.

The constable, however, owed him a great grudge for having escaped and threw him into a dark room under the garden, which had much water lying in it and was infested with tarantulas and other poisonous insects. He was given a mattress and a blanket and strongly locked in. He goes on: “Thus wretchedly did I drag on my time ... in three days everything in the room was under water, yet with my broken leg I could hardly stir an inch and was obliged to crawl about with great difficulty. Only for about an hour and a half I enjoyed a little of the reflected light of the sun, and I passed the remainder of the day and night in the dark patiently, having but little doubt that in a few days I should end my miserable life. Only I was comforted with the thought that I had been spared the excruciating pangs of being flayed alive,” a fate that he was told impended when he was a captive in the Tor di Nona. His sufferings must have been acute nevertheless. Nothing gave him more pain than his nails, which had grown to an inordinate length. “I could not touch myself without being cut by them, neither was I able to put on my clothes because they pricked and gave the most exquisite pain. My teeth likewise rotted in my mouth, and this I perceived because the foul teeth were pushed forward by the sound ones and the stumps came beyond their sockets when I pulled them as it were out of a scabbard without any pain or effusion of blood. Then being reconciled to my other sufferings, one time I sang, another time I played and sometimes wrote (verses) with the compound of brick dust.”

This last refers to the ink he manufactured from the powder of rotten bricks, his pen being a splinter of wood he had gnawed with his teeth from the back of his door, and his paper one of the blank leaves of the Bible which was now his inseparable companion. His piety became exemplary; he was constantly on his knees at prayer. His keepers resented this and roughly handled him, carrying him away by the light of a torch, as Cellini thought, to the sink of Sammalo, “a frightful place where many have been swallowed up alive by falling from thence into a well under the foundations of the castle.” But his fate was only to be immured in a dismal cell where a previous occupant, a victim of Clement VII, had been starved to death. Here he saw visions, divine visitors appeared to him and he was in a state of mental exaltation not far removed from madness. A sonnet he then indited gained him much sympathy and was deemed the work of “a worthy and virtuous person” and the pope was moved to release him, but still listened to the malevolent counsels of Pier Luigi to keep him a prisoner.

There was a dastardly plot against Cellini’s life from the moment of his reincarceration. Cardinal Cornaro had warned him to touch no food that had been dressed in the pope’s kitchen, plainly hinting that it would be poisoned, but to eat only the victuals provided by the Cardinal. These also were tampered with by the admixture of the powder of a pounded diamond. “This is not a poison in itself,” Cellini tells us, “but it is so excessively hard that it retains its acute angles, differing from other stones ... and when the powder enters the stomach with the meat and the operation of digestion is being performed, the particles of the diamond stick to the cartilages and perforate them.... On the day that it was administered to me, being Good Friday, they put it into all my victuals, into the salad, the sauce and the soup. When I had done dinner, as there remained a little of the salad on the dish, I happened to fix my eyes on some of the smallest particles remaining and examining them in a strong light I thought I realized what had been done and I concluded myself to be a dead man.

“But some glimmering hope was left to me, for taking up some of the grains on my knife I pressed them hard on an iron surface and heard them crack. ‘This is not a diamond then,’ I said joyfully, ‘it is the dust of some more common and brittle stone which will do me no injury.’ And I found afterwards that although a real diamond had been provided originally to be ground into powder, the jeweller to whom it had been handed appropriated it himself and instituted an imitation stone, not worth twenty pence.” After this Cellini, giving his reasons, besought a fellow prisoner, the bishop of Pavia and his next door neighbour, to supply him with food from his own table, and suspecting ever that some fresh attempt might be tried, he ate nothing that was not first tasted by the servant who brought it.

Suddenly a change came over the situation. The cardinal of Ferrara came to Rome from France, and after an audience with the pope and a long and pleasant conversation, seeing him in a good humour and likely to grant favours, begged him in the most earnest manner imaginable to take pity upon Cellini. Many of his friends had already spoken on his behalf but vainly. “Although we make earnest and constant solicitation,” writes one, “yet there is no knowing how far the harshness and rage of this old fellow (Pope Paul III) will proceed. His (Cellini’s) offence is no more than what he has amply expiated by his sufferings. If his own perverse nature, which is certainly very obstinate, does not stand in the way, I entertain good hopes.” Luckily, the cardinal of Ferrara interposed opportunely, the Holy Father was mellow with wine and laughingly cried, “Take Benvenuto home with you without a moment’s delay,” giving the necessary orders on the spot and before a whisper could reach Pier Luigi, who would certainly have opposed the release. The pope’s permission reached the prison in the dead of night, Cellini was at once set free and conducted to the cardinal’s house, where he was well lodged and enjoyed the happiness which recovered liberty can bestow. His friends rejoiced greatly, but were still in doubt that Benvenuto would be permanently benefited. “In a little time his affairs should do well if he would let them,” says one, “but for that unmanageable head of his which makes one doubt whether there be anything fixed and certain in the world. We are continually holding up his own interest before his eyes, but he will not see it; the more we say the less he is inclined to hear.” His position was indeed by no means secure, for the very next day the pope had already repented of setting Cellini free.

From this time forth Benvenuto was no more connected with the castle of St. Angelo, and his personal adventures do not concern us further. He presently transferred himself to Paris and entered the service of the French king, Francis I, with whom he remained for some years, obtaining a grant of naturalisation. He carried out a number of fine designs in his work, but was constantly engulfed in the intrigues of the court. He returned eventually to Florence, where he was commissioned to produce the great bronze of Perseus, which was long delayed in execution by the cabals and conspiracies of which he was perpetually the victim. When completed, it proved a very perfect piece of statuary, the more remarkable because Cellini had been chiefly successful heretofore with small figures. Vasari says that the work cannot be sufficiently commended. Vasari’s appreciation of Benvenuto is worth quoting. He describes him “as a man of great spirit and vivacity, bold, active, enterprising and formidable to his enemies, a man in short who knew as well how to speak to princes as to exert himself in his art.”

This pope, Paul III, who so maltreated Cellini, did much for St. Angelo to improve it as a residence. He added the upper floor to the papal apartments and caused it to be decorated magnificently by the best living artists, painters and sculptors, who endowed it with many inestimable art treasures, some of which are still preserved. The great hall of Paul III is still in existence. It was used as a council chamber and adorned with fresco paintings by Perino del Vaga, representing the history of Alexander the Great, which are still intact. At one end is a colossal portrait of Hadrian, the founder of the mausoleum, and opposite it a fresco of the archangel Michael with his wings spread, the original model for the great statue on the top of the castle. The square hall which Paul built is richly decorated with figures in relief by Julio Romano and above them is a graceful frieze of Tritons and Nereids disporting in the sea.

Yet this beautiful residence of the papal court was still the scene of cruel imprisonment. A number of noblemen, including two cardinals, Caraffa and the duke of Palliano, were imprisoned there, charged with heinous crimes. A slow, wearisome trial followed, and after nearly a year Cardinal Carlo Caraffa was found guilty of murder and was strangled the following night in the square hall. At the same time, in the Tor di Nona across the river, the duke and two others were beheaded, while Cardinal Alfonso Caraffa was heavily fined. Yet under the next pope, Pius V, the sentences were declared unjust and the judge who had pronounced them was in his turn decapitated.

Rome continued in a turbulent state. At the meeting of another conclave, the people rose, broke open the prisons and set free four hundred prisoners. The palace of the Inquisition was also attacked and many persons who had long languished there without trial were liberated, while the chief Inquisitor, Ghislieri, who subsequently became pope, all but forfeited his life. The mob went raging through the streets, casting down precious statues and destroying ancient monuments; but peace was presently restored through the efforts of two powerful noblemen, and the new pope, Pius IV (a Medicis), granted an amnesty and pardon to all offenders. He took the precaution to guard against future riots by strongly fortifying the Borgo and constructing a new enclosure which took in the castle of St. Angelo, the Vatican and St. Peter’s, having space within for the marshalling and manœuvre of a large body of cavalry. The castle at this date, 1580-5, is described as having a double cincture of fortifications, a large round tower overlooking the inner end of the bridge, two other towers with lofty pinnacles surmounted by the cross, and all surrounded by the river.

CHAPTER V

SIXTUS THE FIFTH

A strong government was now to follow one of the weakest. Gregory XIII was succeeded by Sixtus V, the most remarkable pope who ever sat upon the papal throne, famous in history for his romantic rise to power, and for the austere manner in which he exercised it. Gregory, although learned in the law, was a feeble, timid ruler whose authority was scouted, and the wildest disorder prevailed in the city. The worst crimes were committed with impunity, and the period became a by-word with coming generations. The expression “in the time of Gregory” was held to be the equivalent of lawlessness and unrestrained violence. During his papacy, assassination and brigandage incessantly vexed society; perpetual conflicts were fought in the streets between the retainers of powerful families. Cardinals and great ecclesiastics were attacked when they drove out in their carriages, were seized and prevented from returning to their own houses, and obliged to seek the protection of armed escorts. On one occasion the police, having arrested a criminal belonging to the Orsini faction, were forced by the adherents of three great families to surrender their prisoner. The fight lasted for three days, during which the streets were strewn with dead and wounded, the shops were closed and the turmoil extended over the whole city. The matter was settled at last by the sacrifice of the Bargello, or chief police officer, who was handed over to the Orsini and immediately put to death.

Outside Rome still greater disorder reigned. Bandits infested the Campagna and the neighbouring provinces. They were led by the highest nobles, who shared their plunder and in return gave them protection and support. Some of the most reckless and unprincipled will be described more particularly when dealing with the government of Sixtus V. The election of this resolute and capable pontiff has been called an accident and it certainly came as a surprise, but the result was mainly due to his consummate cleverness in playing a part which deceived everyone and gained him a preponderance of votes. There were many conflicting parties in the

conclave, all bitterly jealous of each other, and this Cardinal Montalto, as he was commonly called, although his real name was Felice Peretti, secured general support because no one was afraid of him or thought he had the smallest chance of success. For some years past, Montalto had posed as an imbecile, afflicted prematurely with all the infirmities of age. He was generally despised by the whole college of cardinals as a foolish old dotard, helpless and incapable of good or ill, and was held up to common ridicule by the nickname given him of the “ass of La Marca,” referring to his native province. His conduct and demeanour for years past had, no doubt, encouraged the opinion conceived of him. Pope Gregory, with whom he had been associated in Spain, when Gregory went there as legate, had treated him with indignity and contempt, had withdrawn his pension and withheld all preferment. Montalto, with marked meekness and humility, accepted his position; he effaced himself as much as possible, seldom if ever attending a consistory or congregation; he held aloof from all public transactions and never mixed himself in any of the intrigues always active in the papal court. He resided in a small house he had bought in Rome, among the vineyards near S. Maria Maggiore and occupied himself wholly with good works.

Let me digress for one moment to relate how this modest and unpretending monk (for he belonged to the Franciscan order), came to be a cardinal and a prince of the church. He was born in the village of Grottamarina in the province of La Marca D’Ancona and was keeping pigs at the age of nine, when a priest who had lost his way sought his guidance to the town of Ascoli, where he was going to preach. The child beguiled the way with many shrewd remarks and pertinent questions and the priest charmed with his intelligence, took him by the hand, and at once decided to educate him. Little Felix made such surprising progress that he was accepted as a novice in the Franciscan order at the early age of fourteen. He rose rapidly in the Church, and having the gift of eloquence, became a learned theologian, a popular preacher, and an able disputant, so that he was held in general esteem. One bishop told him that if he were pope, he would soon give Felix a cardinal’s hat. Very liberal and tempting proposals were made to him to remain in Spain when he went there with Gregory, but his heart clung to Rome, to which he returned, when he was made general of the Franciscan order, a bishop and later a cardinal. He had also the direction of the papal councils and it may be noted that the bull of excommunication fulminated against Queen Elizabeth of England was drawn up by him.

“It was about this time,” says one of his biographers, “that he secretly began to indulge ambitious dreams and looked to succeed some day to the papacy.” He became humble, patient and affable, artfully concealing the natural impetuosity of his temper and comporting himself with extreme gentleness and moderation toward all. Nevertheless he was generally despised and overlooked, but he showed no disappointment or resentment and quietly bided his time. His opportunity came at the death of Gregory XIII when the conclave assembled to choose his successor. There were several candidates, each with nicely balanced claims. No one party was powerful enough to win the day for its nominee, and it seemed to one and all that the best plan would be to favour the election of some aged invalid who would speedily make way for another election. Montalto was just the person, and when the three most influential cardinals came to tell him of their choice, he was seized with such a violent fit of coughing that they feared he would expire on the spot. He recovered himself so far as to assure them that his reign would not last many days, that he breathed with difficulty and that his strength was quite unequal to the weighty cares of office. He went further, and would not give his consent to wear the tiara unless they promised to assist him with their counsels, saying: “If you are resolved to make me pope, you will really be placing yourselves upon the throne; I shall be content with the bare title, let them call me pope and you are welcome to the power and authority.”

When his point was gained and his election assured, he threw off the mask he had worn for fourteen years or more and appeared in his true colours. It was a complete transformation. He no longer leaned painfully on his crutches, but held himself erect, gave up coughing, and spoke with a strong and authoritative voice; his manner was completely changed, his humility was gone; he ceased to be quiet and submissive, and treated everyone with marked haughtiness, more especially those who had helped him to the papal throne, and ignoring their reminders, boldly declared he meant to rule alone; that with God’s assistance he felt strong enough to insure a good government. The people now viewed with astonishment the seemingly worn-out old man who had suddenly developed so much vigour and determination. His strongly lined face, his firm mouth, his small, but brilliant brown eyes, were those of a masterful man, born to command. Many emotions played upon his countenance; at one time kindliness, even tenderness, and again his features hardened into severity. His complexion was swarthy, his cheeks high coloured, his cheek bones prominent; he wore his beard full and bushy—it was auburn in colour fast turning into gray; his whole person was impressive, imposing rather than majestic; there was nothing regal in his manner, but it was plainly evident that he was master.

Pope Sixtus had barely ascended the throne of St. Peter when it was felt that the reins of power were grasped by powerful hands. He made it clear at once that he was bent upon securing peace and good order in his dominions. The day after his election, he summoned the conservators of the city to his presence and sternly bade them to see that justice was firmly administered. In an edict published before his coronation, he forbade the carrying of fire arms and visited the breach of this injunction with the extreme penalty of the law. Four young brothers were taken with arquebuses in their hands, tried, convicted and sentenced to death. As the coronation procession filed across the bridge of St. Angelo, it met the ghastly spectacle of these four corpses swinging in the air. It had been the custom on coronation day to throw open the prison gates and make a general gaol delivery. But when the governor of St. Angelo came to Sixtus seeking the usual permission, he was angrily rebuked and reminded that it was no affair of his, in the following words: “Pardons do not come within your scope; acts of grace are my prerogative and now that I find my predecessor has left the judges idle for thirteen years, I intend to make up for his neglect. No one shall be released except by process of law. Let all prisoners be brought to speedy trial so that the prisons may be emptied of their present occupants and room made for others. I will not bare the sword in vain, but will execute judgment upon all wrong doers.” He gave orders then that four of the most notorious offenders in St. Angelo should be tried and, if found guilty, publicly executed, two by the axe and two by the halter, on the occasion of his coronation. The college of cardinals vainly protested against this bloodthirsty proceeding, but the pope was inexorable.

Another incident may be quoted illustrating this pope’s determined vindication of the penal law. One day when the streets were crowded to see the new pope as he passed, one of the Swiss guard, in clearing the road, unfortunately struck a Spanish gentleman who was a stranger in Rome. A little later this same soldier was on his knees before the altar in St. Peter’s, when the Spaniard saw him and seizing a pilgrim’s staff that lay at hand, struck the soldier so violent a blow on the head that he was killed immediately. The Spaniard took refuge in the Spanish ambassador’s house. News of the murder reached the pope’s ears and stirred him to take vigorous measures against the culprit. The governor of the city would have paused to enquire into the affair before taking action, but Sixtus would brook no delay; condign punishment must be meted out promptly. The governor pleaded that as the Spaniard was under the momentary protection of his ambassador, more circumspection should be shown. But the pope answered furiously, “This is no time for forms and ceremonies. I will have that Spaniard hanged before I sit down to dinner, and I shall dine early to-day.”

Sixtus V was no doubt terribly in earnest and Rome trembled. He was determined to establish order and terrify all who had hitherto tyrannised over quiet and well disposed people. He insisted that the police should take cognisance of all offences, and to make sure that the judges would do their duty, removed all of lenient disposition from the bench and replaced them by men of sterner stuff, not afraid to use the powers entrusted to them. His chief efforts were directed against brigandage, which had long been the scourge of the papal states. It was calculated that during the later years of Gregory’s reign, the total number of bandits in active prosecution of their evil trade varied from 12,000 to 27,000 persons. The states of the Church were infested with organised bands, large and small, who terrorised and laid waste the country. They were well disciplined, well clothed, well armed and well led by reckless outlaws, many of them of good family who had quarrelled with authority and set the law absolutely at defiance. They drew their recruits from the entire criminal population; every village sent its contingent and the people generally were in close relations with the banditti, whom they supported and admired for their daring deeds and unbounded contempt for danger. They befriended and sided with the bandits against the soldiery sent in pursuit of them, for the bandits treated them well, while the soldiers robbed and ill-used them so that they were stigmatised as the “slaughterers,” and thus the defenders of the public peace were more dreaded than its disturbers.

At this time, there were three principal brigand chiefs, Piccolomini, Guercino and Lamberto Malatesta. The first was a nobleman, Duke of Monte Marciano, of an illustrious family in Sienna, which had given a pope, Pius II, to the pontificate. This highborn brigand was long the lord and master of the papal states and ravaged them from end to end. Sometimes he made descents on Rome; sometimes he raided the Romagna and the two Marches. He moved always with lightning-like rapidity, suddenly appearing before some stronghold, which he captured, forthwith putting its garrison to the sword. He generally beat off the troops sent against him, but if worsted skilfully made good his escape. Many stories were current of his misdeeds; the mere expression of his face framed in with long flowing hair struck terror to the hearts of his victims, but he treated the peasants kindly and was almost as much loved as feared by them. He threatened to carry his depredations into the very heart of Rome and declared he would hold the city at his mercy until reinstated in his confiscated possessions. Some sort of compromise was entered into by the pope, in Gregory’s time, and although he did not recover his estates, he was bought off by the grant of a pension to his sisters.

Nothing could exceed the insolent boldness of the brigands when Sixtus assumed power. They came up to the very gates of Rome; indeed they entered the Holy City and often carried off people whom they took out of their beds. Outside, they intercepted communications, stopped the mails and robbed messengers of the ambassadors. Sixtus waged war vigorously against them; he called upon the people in a bull, issued within a week of his election, to fly to arms when the alarm-bell rang and offer determined resistance. A price was set upon the heads of the leading brigands; full pardon was promised to any who would betray or kill their fellows. A new and more capable commander, Cardinal Colonna, headed the soldiers in attacking the banditti, who were driven off with great loss of life. Guercino, the priest, was among the slain. After this the smaller towns joined in the campaign, which was pursued with so much energy that by the end of the year the brigands were completely driven out of the Campagna.

After Piccolomini had retired into private life, Lamberto Malatesta became the most formidable leader. He also was a man of rank and belonged to the family of Rimini who had once reigned almost as sovereign princes. His operations were conducted on a large scale and with the utmost audacity. He ravaged Romagna, Umbria and the Marches; he attacked and took fortified castles; he scaled the walls of Imola, an important town in the Romagna, and was strongly backed by the grand-duke of Tuscany, with whom he found secure winter quarters and all necessary reinforcements. The pope was constrained to threaten the duke with war unless he withdrew his support from this outrageous criminal. Sixtus spoke in the most indignant terms. “It astonishes me that you should tolerate a man who has been discarded by the Holy Church, that you should allow him to levy men in your states to the detriment of mine.” He went on to threaten coercive measures unless Malatesta was at once given up to him. The grand-duke yielded with a good grace; arrested Malatesta and sent him to Rome, where his arrival caused great consternation and a general exodus of many secret supporters who dreaded the result of his revelations. No better proof could be afforded of the extent of Malatesta’s nefarious operations and of the number of allies he had secured. It was said that at one time he had conceived the most ambitious schemes,—nothing less than the invasion of Italy by Protestant princes from the north and the overthrow of the papal power in Europe, in coöperation with his hordes of robbers. Sixtus made short work of this aristocratic criminal; he was put upon his trial, the suit was pressed forward and he was speedily condemned. Out of consideration for his family, the sentence of death passed upon him was carried out by decapitation on the battlements of St. Angelo. So efficacious were the uncompromising measures undertaken against brigandage that when barely two years had elapsed after the pope’s election, it had practically ceased to exist.

Sixtus V was uniformly severe in the repression of all kinds of crime. He was, no doubt, by nature cruel; he spared no one and punished wrong doing inexorably. A man of austere virtue, he condemned all immorality and would suffer no breaches of the law. His rule was harsh and unrelenting, but it extricated Rome from the old chaos of tumult and disorder. A long list might be made of the summary regulations he enforced for the good government of the city. He issued stringent laws against astrologers, fortune tellers, card sharpers and blasphemers; he obliged all ecclesiastics to appear with the tonsure and in the dress of their order; he threatened death to the newsmongers if they spread any report that ought to remain secret or might be prejudicial to the honour of private persons. In this connection it may be said that capital punishment was comparatively rare and reserved mostly for homicides after fair trial. Impunity for misconduct was no longer conceded to birth, position, connections or benefit of clergy. It was dangerous to make a joke of the law. Several youthful members of the best families, Orsini Sforza and Incoronati, dared to place cats’ heads on pikes on the bridge of St. Angelo to ridicule some public execution, and they were all forthwith arrested, but escaped with a reprimand. The son of a cardinal, D’Altemps, was guilty of abduction, and despite the protests of his father, was seized and shut up in the castle of St. Angelo. Here he lay for four months under sentence of death, the proper penalty for his offence; and although the sacred college resented the action, the pope long refused to forgive the offender, who was only released to oblige his uncle, a German of high rank, who came to Rome on purpose to plead his cause. Two servants of another cardinal, Sforza, quarrelled and blood was shed, but the offenders made their escape. Sixtus ordered the cardinal to give them up under pain of being locked up himself in St. Angelo. Another cardinal was arrested for disobeying the pope’s orders, and when Cardinal de Medicis pleaded for him, Sixtus sharply reproved him, declaring that he meant to be master both in Rome and in Christendom. The pope’s arrogant demeanour naturally did not endear him to the cardinals and several of them would have no intercourse with the Vatican and attended neither the consistories nor the ceremonies of the Church.

A few more instances may be quoted to illustrate the punishment and condition of crime in the time of Pope Sixtus V. Very soon after his accession, the servant of the German ambassador was found wearing a sword, which was forbidden, and for which he was imprisoned and received three lashes. The diplomatic body was loudly indignant and insisted that the governor of Rome who had enforced the punishment should be called to account. But Sixtus positively refused to interfere and boldly declared that if one of the ambassadors themselves had been caught, he would have been equally punished for it; and more, that were the emperor to come in person to Rome he should be compelled to obey the laws laid down by His Holiness. Another story is told of the time when brigandage was rampant. Count Giovani Pepoli was the head of a great family in Upper Italy and a bandit had taken refuge at one of his castles in Bologna. The governor of the province called for his immediate surrender, but Count Pepoli refused, claiming that his castle was a fief of the German Empire. The governor attempted to lay forcible hands upon the brigand but failing in the attempt, caused the count himself to be arrested. The pope entirely approved of this summary act, and threatened the old count with death and confiscation unless he delivered up the bandit. The sturdy old nobleman still refused and sought the protection of the emperor in a letter, which was intercepted, and in which he had imprudently said that he counted upon being soon out of the hands of this monkish tyrant. Sixtus positively refused to spare the count, whom he charged with constant collusion with brigands and whom he said must pay the penalty. This was enforced by sentence of death and the count was accordingly strangled in prison. This severity was condemned by public opinion in Rome as excessive. “Everyone who knew this excellent nobleman feels horrified,” wrote one of the cardinals. On the other hand, there were those who believed that this execution would tend to increase public security. It was no doubt an act of great boldness, for the state of Bologna was disaffected. The Bolognese were a turbulent people and might be expected to rise in rebellion against the pope, but they lacked the courage to oppose Sixtus, who saw that he had struck a decisive blow which created a profound impression in Italy and beyond it.

The pope showed no mercy to his own order, and offending ecclesiastics were called to strict account. A friar who had imposed upon the credulity of the devout by pretending to work miracles with an image of the Virgin, was ignominiously paraded from one end of the Corso to the other, and then publicly flogged. A Franciscan, one of his own order, who had been guilty of many crimes, was hanged upon the bridge of St. Angelo. A clerical newsmonger was barbarously executed at the same place, having been first degraded and unfrocked. Before he died on the gibbet his hands were cut off and his tongue torn out. A list of his crimes were written on a board and hung over him; they included calumniation of persons of all ranks, the dissemination of false news, and correspondence with heretical princes. A mother who had permitted her daughter to become the mistress of a noble, was hanged on the bridge of St. Angelo, and the girl dressed in rich clothes, the gift of her seducer, was forced to witness the execution. An impostor who had manufactured and disposed of false bulls was executed upon a gilded gibbet. The mere name Sixtus V inspired wholesome terror. When quarrels and affrays occurred in the public streets, they were instantly quelled if the passers-by called out, “Remember that Sixtus V reigns.” The pope was the universal bogey, and even mothers quieted their children by crying, “Hush! Sixtus is coming!”

This stern ruler had a long memory. The passage of the years brought no forgiveness for ancient and half forgotten offences. He cherished a vindictive feeling for many years against the murderer of his nephew Francesco Peretti, the unfortunate husband of that famous beauty, Vittoria Accoramboni. This crime had been perpetrated in the time of Gregory, when Sixtus was still Cardinal Montalto and held of small account. The reigning pope would take no proper action, and the real authors of the murder were screened; one was a man of the highest rank, an Orsini, Duke of Bracciano, with whom Gregory was afraid to interfere. A brief account of this most reprehensible affair may fitly be introduced here.

The Accoramboni were a noble family of Gubbio, in Umbria, the chief of which had married an ambitious Roman lady, who hoped to achieve a leading position in society through her daughter, one of the most fascinating women known to history. Her charms are amply set forth in contemporary records. She was singularly beautiful, had a quick wit and a cultivated mind, a sweet voice, with every natural gift and most attractive manners. Many suitors came to pay her court, chief among them being Paolo Giordano Orsini, the above mentioned duke of Bracciano, whom she no doubt favoured, and who was distinctly acceptable to the mother in spite of his evil reputation. He was said to have strangled his first wife, Othello-like, in a fit of jealousy. He was also closely allied with the brigands whom he sheltered, both in Rome and in the provinces, where he had vast possessions. He was very stout, no longer young or handsome, and hardly the kind of man to captivate a woman. But he pleased Vittoria and being deeply in love would no doubt have married her except for Accoramboni, the father, who intervened, fearing some scandal, and gave his daughter to Francesco Peretti, of course an inferior, but by no means a bad match. The young couple came to live with Cardinal Montalto in the modest house near S. Maria Maggiore. They were fairly happy, but ill-matched. Vittoria was a fashionable lady, recklessly extravagant, devoted to social functions and the smartest clothes. She was an unconscionable flirt, many men were continually at her feet, and foremost among them was her old lover the duke. Family quarrels and dissensions were of constant occurrence, when one night Francesco was assassinated in the street, it was supposed by Marcello Accoramboni, his brother-in-law, with whom he had been last seen, but who had, no doubt, been incited to the murder by the duke of Bracciano. Montalto was overwhelmed with grief, but got no redress from the pope, who merely ordered the prosecution of a person who had made a false confession of the crime and who was at a safe distance from Rome. There could be little doubt as to the chief instigator, for a few days later Vittoria ran away from the cardinal’s house and sought the protection of the duke of Bracciano. Moved now by public indignation, the pope issued a warning ordering Vittoria to go home to her father and break with Orsini, whom she was forbidden to marry. All these orders were defied; she constantly visited the duke, and it was afterwards known that two distinct marriages between them took place about this time. But the pope vindicated his authority and sent the police to arrest Vittoria, and she was conveyed to the castle of St. Angelo, where she was imprisoned for nearly a year. The duke, however, who stood well at the court, managed to secure her enlargement, openly declaring that he had given up his idea of marrying the woman, who, as a matter of fact, was already his wife. A third marriage was solemnised at the very time of the election of Sixtus V.

It was now Montalto’s turn; the murderers of Francesco Peretti might look at last for a sharp reckoning. The duke of Bracciano had not hesitated to pay homage to the new pope, although on his appearance at the Vatican he was received with a coldness that boded ill. Vittoria likewise had the effrontery to visit Camilla, the pope’s sister and the mother of her first husband. It was very plain to the Braccianos that their position in Rome was insecure and, escaping in the night, they fled into the country and eventually took refuge at Salo, in the territory of the Venetian republic. The matter slept for a time but was revived by the arrest of a servant of the duke’s for another crime, who made many damaging allegations against his former master when on the rack. Now Donna Camilla implored her brother to avenge the murder of her son, and Sixtus V applied for the extradition of the duke of Bracciano. He had first perused all of the documents on the case, which had been deposited in the castle of St. Angelo, and was moved to fresh indignation. Death, however, removed the duke from the scene and Sixtus instead asked for Marcello Accoramboni, who was in prison at Padua for another offence. The Venetian senate demurred, but at length surrendered him, and Marcello was taken to Ancona where he was tried, convicted and executed.

Vittoria’s fate was cruel, but perhaps not wholly undeserved. The duke, who died in her arms, had left her a large portion of his wealth, but at the mercy of the Orsini family. Ludovico, who was in the service of Venice, hurried to Salo and subjected Vittoria to much indignity, obliging her to surrender all her jewelry and valuables. She, foreseeing worse, fled to Padua and applied to her uncle-in-law for help and protection. Sixtus V had always liked her and willingly lent her his countenance in her poverty and distress, but it was too late. A number of armed miscreants broke into the palace, which she inhabited with her brothers, and murdered her when she was at her prayers. The crime was brought home to Ludovico, who stoutly resisted capture, but he was soon taken and the doge at once decided that he should lose his life. Three days afterward he was strangled in prison and his accomplices hanged on the public place of Padua.

The consolidation of peace and good order in his dominions was not the only boon conferred by Sixtus on his people. A motto ascribed to him, “Severity and the accumulation of riches,” indicated the guiding principles of his reign. We have seen how he administered justice; I will now refer briefly to his wise financial policy.

The visitor to the castle of St. Angelo is shown the Treasure Chamber created by Sixtus. It is reached, after passing through the oil stores and the Cannon Ball Court, by a long narrow corridor from which open the so-called historical prisons, all of which are associated by tradition with some famous occupant. One is that known as the “Petroni,” so-called after the wife of Francesco Cenci, the stepmother of the unhappy Beatrice; another is said to have been the resting place of Beatrice herself, and yet another the place of durance of Benvenuto Cellini. Cellini’s cell still preserves traces of a figure drawn in charcoal representing “Christ Triumphant,” attributed to the famous artist’s own hand, and there is internal evidence to show that this was the very cell from which he started on his memorable escape. After wrenching from its hinges the door which stood at the top of the steps, he made his way to a small platform, which projected from the keep in the form of a balcony, and lowered himself from this point by using the rope he had manufactured out of his sheets. We view these hideous cells with horror; they are dark and airless—the exact counterpart of mediæval dungeons—and we can enter into the feelings of their wretched inmates who languished there for years with little hope of release except by death. From the level of these prisons, we mount to the first floor of the papal apartments, and enter the hall named after Giulio Romano, and pass into a circular chamber, really in the very centre of the castle, which was the receptacle of the secret records and the papal treasury. Walnut wood shelves in the plain style of Paul III surround this chamber and it contains a number of huge boxes in oak, bound with iron and of immense strength. The largest of these was the cash box of Sixtus V, and in the smaller ones the crown jewels, the sceptres and tiaras and precious relics were preserved.

Sixtus V became the richest sovereign of the day; he was often heard to say that a king without money was nobody, and he always had plenty ready to his hand. There were no means of borrowing in those days; only two public banks existed, those of Venice and Genoa, and neither of them lent money even on the most undeniable security. Any man, even the head of a state, if he wanted to lay his hand on specie must save it and put it by. Sixtus was wedded to economy, and the fruits thereof were deposited in St. Angelo. He bent every effort to gather in the rich harvest. He taxed his people heavily; imposed duties upon all articles of produce, even for a time upon wine, a most unpopular measure. His savings in due course amounted to vast sums; his deposit in the castle at the end of his reign was three million scudi in gold, and a million scudi in silver, all of which constituted a very solid backbone of wealth. Not that this implied a solid financial system; for the moneys thus hoarded were taken out of circulation and meant so much dead capital withdrawn from currency and useless in fostering commercial industry. Moreover, the taxation by which the pope gathered his funds together was undoubtedly burdensome and injurious to the people.

It is little likely that such a despotic ruler as Sixtus V would escape criticism; he was constantly lampooned and held up to ridicule in the manner dear to the witty Romans, but full of danger even when it was done anonymously. He was constantly exposed to satirical jests which were pasted up on the statue called the Pasquino, the mutilated part of a great group representing Menelaus dragging the dead body of Patroclus from the walls of Troy. This statue stood against the walls of the Orsini palace close to the corner where another more splendid building, the Braschi palace, was afterwards built. This shapeless fragment was generally considered one of the noblest works of ancient art. A witty tailor, named Pasquino, at one time kept a shop nearly opposite the statue, which was nicknamed after him. The wits of the city frequented Pasquino’s shop to interchange scandalous gossip and pungent jokes and the place became famous. When the street was repaired the statue was removed and was erected alongside the shop, and the custom was established of making it a sort of notice board; the epigrams pasted up were known as pasquinata, the origin of our word “pasquinade.” This was early in the sixteenth century, from which time forth Pasquino became a name much dreaded and the vehicle of many bitter sayings. The government vainly tried to silence him and get rid of the statue. One pope, Adrian VI, who had been deeply offended by some sarcastic lines, would have thrown it into the Tiber, but a wise Spanish legate warned him to forbear lest the frogs in the river should learn to croak pasquinades. Another pope, Paul III, was asked by the statue how much he would give it to hold its tongue? A collection of the early pasquinades preserving a great number of the epigrams is extant but exceedingly rare.

In one of the pasquinades Clement VII was told, “Papa non est errare;” the word errare having the double meaning, might be taken to imply that he claimed to be infallible and could not go wrong, or might refer to the fact that he was held a prisoner in St. Angelo by the constable of Bourbon, and could not wander at will.

Pasquino had a rival. There was a second statue, that called the Marforio, standing near the Capitol and used for the same purpose, chiefly in carrying on a dialogue in which people were criticised and sharply attacked. Thus Pasquin is asked why he is wearing a dirty shirt and he tells Marforio that he cannot get a clean one because Sixtus V had made his washerwoman a princess. The reference is to the pope’s sister, Camilla, who had originally been a laundress. This libel greatly displeased the pope, who was very much attached to his relations, and he ordered a strict search to be made for its author. At last, after fruitless enquiry, Sixtus promised the writer a thousand pistoles and his life if he would come forward and give himself up; on the other hand, that if he were discovered by other means he should be hanged. The libellist, hungry for the reward, made full confession and then demanded the money, and, as promised, that his life should be spared. The pope was as good as his word; he handed over the money, but ordered that the offender should have his hands cut off and his tongue bored through so as to curb his wit. “I only promised you your life,” he said, “and you have got it, but you deserve punishment, not so much for having written the pasquinade, but for avowing it.”

Another instance may be related of the ruthless severity with which Sixtus prosecuted offenders. In addition to the cases mentioned above, there was that of the parricide Count Attilio Baschi, who had killed his father forty years before and was now brought to trial, found guilty and executed. Many other criminals whose offences were all but forgotten, were also indicted and sentenced. This led to the composition of another pasquinade affixed to the beautiful statues of St. Peter and St. Paul, which are still standing at the entrance to the bridge of St. Angelo. St. Peter was given a bag which he carried on his back and St. Paul was made to ask why. “I am off on my travels,” was St. Peter’s reply; “if I stay here I expect to be prosecuted for having cut off the High Priest’s ear.” Again the pope’s parsimony was ridiculed. Marforio asked Pasquino why he washed his linen on Sunday. “Because Sixtus is going to put the sun up at auction to-morrow,” was the reply.

On the whole Sixtus V was a benefactor to his country; he restored peace and tranquillity to the papal states and the people enjoyed a prosperity hitherto unknown. The severe measures taken were against wrong doers, the outlaws who committed crimes, the brigands in open warfare with the government, the members of great families at variance with one another who set law and order at defiance. At the same time while protecting the city, he beautified it and endowed it with many new works. He built bridges, constructed roads, founded the Vatican library and was a liberal patron of the arts. A notable instance of his charitable action was his gift of three thousand crowns to the funds collected for the redemption of Christian slaves captured by the Algerian pirates. He did much in a very brief space of time, for he reigned only five years and died suddenly with a strong suspicion that he had been poisoned.