WHEN THE PAPAL Seat was transferred to Avignon, and Rome was left to its own devices and that fluctuating popular government which meant little beyond a wavering balance of power between two great families, the state of the ancient imperial city became more disorderly, tumultuous and anarchical than that of almost any other town in Italy, which is saying much. All the others had at least the traditions of an established government, or a sturdy tyranny: Rome alone had never been at peace and scarcely knew how to compose herself under any sway. She had fought her Popes, sometimes desperately, sometimes only captiously with the half-subdued rebelliousness of ill-temper, almost from the beginning of their power; and her sons had long been divided into a multiplicity of parties, each holding by one of the nobles who built their fortresses among the classic ruins, and defied the world from within the indestructible remnants of walls built by the Cæsars. One great family after another entrenched itself within those monuments of the ancient ages. The Colosseum was at one time the stronghold of the great Colonna: Stefano, the head of that name, inhabited the great building known as the Theatre of Marcellus at another period, and filled with his retainers an entire quarter. The castle of St. Angelo, with various flanking towers, was the home of the Orsini; and these two houses more or less divided the power between them, the other nobles adhering to one or the other party. Even amid the tumults of Florence there was always a shadow of a principle, a supposed or real cause in the name of which one party drove another fuori, out of the city. But in Rome even the great quarrel of Guelf and Ghibelline took an almost entirely personal character to increase the perpetual tumult. The vassals of the Pope were not on the Pope’s side nor were they against him,
non furon rebelli
Nè fur fedeli a Dio, mà per sé foro.
The community was distracted by mere personal quarrels, by the feuds of the great houses who were their lords but only tore asunder, and neither protected nor promoted the prosperity of that greatest of Italian cities, which in its miserable incompetence and tumult was for a long time the least among them.
The anonymous historian who has left to us the story of Cola di Rienzi affords us the most lively picture of the city in which, in his terse and vivid record, there is the perpetual sound of a rushing, half-armed crowd, of blows that seem to fall at random, and trumpets that sound, and bells that ring, calling out the People — a word so much misused — upon a hundred trifling occasions, with little bloodshed one would imagine but a continual rushing to and fro and disturbance of all the ordinary habits of life. We need not enter into any discussion of who this anonymous writer was. He is the only contemporary historian of Rienzi, and his narrative has every appearance of truth. He narrates the things he saw with a straightforwardness and simplicity which are very convincing. “I will begin,” he says, “with the time when these two barons (the heads of the houses of Colonna and Orsini) were made knights by the people of Rome. Yet,” he adds, with an afterthought, “I will not begin with an account of that, because I was then at too tender an age to have had clear knowledge of it.” Thus our historian is nothing if not an eye-witness, very keenly aware of every incident, and viewing the events, and the streams of people as they pass, with the never-failing interest of a true chronicler. We may quote the incident with which he does begin as an example of his method: his language is the Italian of Rome, a local version, yet scarcely to be called a patois: it presents little difficulty after the first moment to the moderately instructed reader, who however, I trust, will kindly understand that the eccentricities are the chronicler’s and not errors of the press.
“With what new thing shall I begin? I will begin with the
time of Jacopo di Saviello. Being made Senator solely by
the authority of King Robert, he was driven out of the
Capitol by the Syndics, who were Stefano de la Colonna,
Lord of Palestrina, and Poncello, and Messer Orso, lord of
the Castle of St. Angelo. These two went to the Aracoeli,
and ringing the bell collected the people, half cavalry and
half on foot. All Rome was under arms. I recollect it well
as in a dream. I was in Sta. Maria del Popolo (di lo
Piubbico). And I saw the line of horsemen passing, going
towards the Capitol: strongly they went and proudly. Half
of them were well mounted, half were on foot. The last of
them (If I recollect rightly) wore a tunic of red silk, and
a cap of yellow silk on his head, and carried a bunch of
keys in his hand. They passed along the road by the well
where dwell the Ferrari, at the corner of the house of
Paolo Jovenale. The line was long. The bell was ringing and
the people arming themselves. I was in Santa Maria di lo
Piubbico. To these things I put my seal (as witness).
Jacopo di Saviello, Senator, was in the Capitol. He was
surrounded on all sides with fortifications: but it did him
no good to entrench himself, for Stefano, his uncle, went
up, and Poncello the Syndic of Rome, and took him gently by
the hand and set him on his horse that there might be no
risk to his person. There was one who thought and said,
‘Stefano, how can you bring your nephew thus to shame?’ The
proud answer of Stefano was: ‘For two pennyworth of wax I
will set him free, — but the two pence were not
forthcoming.”
Jacopo di Saviello, thus described as a nominee of the King of Naples, is a person without much importance, touching whose individuality it would take too much space to inquire. He appears afterwards as the right hand man of his cousin, Sciarra Colonna, and the incident has no doubt some connection with the story that follows: but we quote it merely as an illustration of the condition of Rome at the beginning of the fourteenth century. In the month of September in the year 1327 there occurred an episode in the history of the city which affords many notable scenes. The city of Rome had in one of its many caprices taken the part of Louis of Bavaria, who had been elected Emperor to the great displeasure of John XXII., the Pope then reigning in Avignon. According to the chronicler, though the fact is not mentioned in other histories, the Pope sent his legate to Rome, accompanied by the “Principe de la Morea” and a considerable army, in order to prevent the reception there of Il Bavaro as he is called, who was then making his way through Italy with much success and triumph. By this time there would seem to have been a complete revolution in the opinions of Rome, and the day when two-pennyworth of wax could not be got for the ransom of Saviello was forgotten under the temporary rule of Sciarra Colonna, the only one of his family who was a Ghibelline, and who held strongly for Louis of Bavaria, rejecting all the traditions of his house. Our chronicler, who is very impartial, and gives us no clue to his own opinions, by no means despised the party of the Pope. There arrived before Rome, he tells us, “seven hundred horsemen and foot soldiers without end. All the barons of the house of Orsini,” and many other notable persons: and the whole army was molto bella e bene acconcia, well equipped and beautiful to behold. This force gained possession of the Leonine city, entering not by the gates which were guarded, but by the ruined wall: and occupied the space between that point and St. Peter’s, making granne festa, and filling the air with the sound of their trumpets and all kinds of music.
“But when Sciarra the bold captain (franco Capitano)
heard of it, it troubled him not at all. Immediately he
armed himself and caused the bell to be rung. It was
midnight and men were in their first sleep. A messenger
with a trumpet was sent through the town, proclaiming that
every one should arm himself, that the enemy had entered
the gates (in Puortica) and that all must assemble on the
Capitol. The people who slept, quickly awakened, each took
up his arms. Cossia was the name of the crier. The bell was
ringing violently (terribilmente). The people went to the
Capitol, both the barons and the populace: and the good
Capitano addressed them and said that the enemy had come to
outrage the women of Rome. The people were much excited.
They were then divided into parties, of one of which he was
captain himself. Jacopo Saviello was at the head of the
other which was sent to the gate of San Giovanni, then
called Puorta Maggiore. And this was done because they knew
that the enemy was divided in two parties. But it did not
happen so. When Jacopo reached the gate he found no one. On
the other hand Sciarra rode with his barons. Great was the
company of horsemen. Seven Rioni had risen to arms and
innumerable were the people. They reached the gate of San
Pietro. I remember that on that night a Roman knight who
had ridden to the bridge heard a trumpet of the enemy, and
desiring to fly jumped from his horse, and leaving it came
on on foot. I know that there was no lack of fear (non
habe carestia di paura). When the people reached the
bridge it was already day, the dawn had come. Then Sciarra
commanded that the gate should be opened. The crowd was
great, and the enemy were much troubled to see on the
bridge the number of pennons, for they knew that with each
pennon there were twenty-five men. Then the gate was
opened. The Rione of li Monti went first: the people filled
the Piazza of the Castello: they were all ranged in order,
both soldiers and people.
“Now were seen the rushing of the horses, one on the top of
another. One gave, another took (che dao, che tolle),
great was the noise, great was the encounter. Trumpets
sounded on this side and that. One gave, and another took.
Sciarra and Messer Andrea di Campo di Fiore confronted each
other and abused each other loudly. Then they broke their
lances upon each other: then struck with their swords:
neither would have less than the life of the other.
Presently they separated and came back each to his people.
There was great striking of swords and lances and some
fell. It could be seen that it was a cruel fight. The
people of Rome wavered back and forward like waves of the
sea. But it was the enemy that gave way, the people gained
the middle of the Piazza. Then was done a strange thing.
One whose name was Giovanni Manno, of the Colonna, carried
the banner of the people of Rome. When he came to the great
well, which is in that Piazza, in front of the Incarcerate,
where was the broken wall, he took the banner and threw it
into the well. And this he did to discourage the people of
Rome. The traitor well deserved to lose his life. The
Romans however did not lose courage, and already the Prince
of the Morea began to give way. He had either to fly or to
be killed. Then Sciarra de la Colonna, like a good mother
with her son, comforted the people and made everything go
well, such great sense did he show. Also another novel
thing was done. A great man of Rome (Cola de Madonna
Martorni de li Anniballi was his name) was a very bold
person and young. He was seized with desire to take
prisoner the Prince himself. He spurred his horse, and
breaking through the band of strong men who encircled the
Prince put out his hand to take him. So he had hoped to do
at least, but was not successful, for the Prince with an
iron club wounded his horse. The strength of the Prince’s
charger was such that Cola was driven back: but the horse
of Cola had not sufficient space to move, and its hind feet
slipping, it fell into the ditch which is in front of the
gate of the Hospital of Santo Spirito, to defend the
garden. In the ditch both his horse and he, trying to
escape, fell, pressed by the soldiers of the Prince: and
there was he killed. Great was the mourning which Rome made
over so distinguished a baron — and all the people were
fired with indignation.
“The Prince now retired, his troops yielded. They began to
fly. The flight was great. Greater was the slaughter. They
were killed like sheep. Much resistance was made, many
people were killed, and the Romans gained much prey. Among
those taken was Bertollo the chief of the Orsini, Captain
of the army of the Church, and of the Guelf party: and if
it had not been that Sciarra caught him up on the croup of
his horse, he would have been murdered by the people.”
Then follows a horrible account of the number of dead who lay mutilated and naked on every roadside, and even among the vineyards: and the story ends with Sciarra’s return to the Capitol with great triumph, and of a beautiful pallium which was sent to the Church of Sant’Angelo in Pescheria, along with a chalice, “in honour of this Roman victory.”
Curiously enough our chronicler takes no notice of the episode of which this attack and repulse evidently form part, the reception of Il Bavaro in Rome, which is one of the unique incidents in Roman history. It took place in May of the following year, and afforded a very striking scene to the eager townsfolk, never quite sure that they could tolerate the Tedeschi, though pleased with them for a novelty and willing enough to fight their legitimate lord the Pope on behalf of the strangers. It was in January 1328 that Louis of Bavaria made his entrance into Rome — Sciarra Colonna above named being still Senator, head of the Ghibelline party, and the friend of the new-made Emperor. After being met at Viterbo by the Roman officials and questioned as to his intentions, Louis marched with his men into the Leonine city and established himself for some days in what is called the palace of St. Peter, the beginning of the Vatican, where, though there was still a party not much disposed to receive him, he was hailed with acclamations by the people, always eager for a new event, and not unmindful of the liberal largesse which an Emperor on his promotion, and especially when about to receive the much coveted coronation in St. Peter’s, scattered around him. Louis proposed to restore the city to its ancient grandeur, and to promote its interests in every way, and flattered the people by receiving their vote of approval on the Capitol. “Going up to the Capitol,” says Muratori, “he caused an oration to be made to the Roman people with many expressions of gratitude and praise, and with promises that Rome should be raised up to the stars.” These honeyed words so pleased the people that he was declared Senator and Captain of Rome, and in a few days was crowned Emperor with every appearance of solemnity and grandeur.
This would seem to be the first practical revival of the strange principle that Rome, as a city, not by its Emperor nor by its Pope, but in its own right, was the fountain of honour, the arbiter of the world — everything in short which in classical times its government was, and in the mediæval ages, the Papacy wished to be. It is curious to account for such an article of belief; for the populace of Rome had never in modern times possessed any of the characteristics of a great people, and was a mixed and debased race according to all authorities. This theory, however, was now for a time to affect the whole story of the city, and put a spasmodic life into her worn-out veins. It was the only thing which could have made such a story as that of Rienzi possible, and it was strongly upheld by Petrarch and other eager and philosophic observers. The Bavarian Louis was, however, the first who frankly sought the confirmation of his election from the hands of the Roman people. One cannot, however, but find certain features of a farce in this solemn ceremony.
The coronation processions which passed through the streets from Sta. Maria Maggiore, according to Sismondi, to St. Peter’s, were splendid, the barons and counsellors, or buon-homini of Rome leading the cortège, and clothed in cloth of gold. “Behind the monarch marched four thousand men whom he had brought with him; all the streets which he traversed were hung with rich tapestries.” He was accompanied by a lawyer eminent in his profession, to watch over the perfect legality of every point in the ceremonial. The well-known Castruccio Castracani, who had followed him to Rome, was appointed by the Emperor to be his deputy as Senator, and to watch over the city; and in this capacity he took his place in the procession in a tunic of crimson silk, embroidered with the words in gold on the breast, “He is what God wills”; on the back, “He will be what God pleases.” There was no Pope, it need not be said, to consecrate the new Emperor. The Pope was in Avignon, and his bitter enemy. There was not even a Bishop of Ostia to present the great monarch before St. Peter and the powers of heaven. Nevertheless the Church was not left out, though it was placed in a secondary position. Some kind of ceremony was gone through by the Bishop of Venice, or rather of Castello, the old name of that restless diocese, and the Bishop of Alecia, both of them deposed and under excommunication at the moment: but it was Sciarra Colonna who put the crown on Louis’s head. The whole ceremonial was secular, almost pagan in its meaning, if meaning at all further than a general throwing of dust in the eyes of the world it could be said to have. But there is a fictitious gravity in the proceedings which seems almost to infer a sense of the prodigious folly of the assumption that these quite incompetent persons were qualified to confer, without any warrant for their deed, the greatest honour in Christendom upon the Bavarian. John XXII. was not a very noble Pope, but his sanction was a very different matter from that of Sciarra Colonna. No doubt however the people of Rome — Lo Popolo, the blind mob so pulled about by its leaders, and made to assume one ridiculous attitude after another at their fancy — was flattered by the idea that it was from itself, as the imperial city, that the Emperor took the confirmation of his election and his crown.
Immediately afterwards a still more unjustifiable act was performed by the Emperor thus settled in his imperial seat. Assisted by his excommunicated bishops and his rebellious laymen, Louis held, Muratori tells us, in the Piazza of St. Peter a gran parlamento, calling upon any one who would take upon him the defence of Jacques de Cahors, calling himself Pope John XXII., to appear and answer the accusations against him.
“No one replied: and then there rose up the Syndic of that
part of the Roman clergy who loved gold better than
religion, and begged Louis to take proceedings against the
said Jacques de Cahors. Various articles were then produced
accusing the Pope of heresy and treason, and of having
raised the cross (i.e. sent a crusade, probably the
expedition of the Prince of the Morea in the chronicle)
against the Romans. For which reasons the Bavarian declared
Pope John to be deposed from the pontificate and to be
guilty of heresy and treason, with various penalties which
I leave without mention. On the 23rd of April, with the
consent of the Roman people, a law was published that every
Pope in the future ought to hold his court in Rome, and not
to be absent more than three months in the year on pain of
being deposed from the Papacy. Finally on the twelfth day
of May, in the Piazza of San Pietro, Louis with his crown
on his head, proposed to the multitude that they should
elect a new Pope. Pietro de Corvara, a native of the
Abbruzzi, of the order of the Friars Minor, a great
hypocrite, was proposed: and the people, the greater part
of whom hated Pope John because he was permanently on the
other side of the Alps (dè la dai monti), accepted the
nomination. He assumed the name of Nicolas V. Before his
consecration there was a promotion of seven false
cardinals: and on the 22nd of May he was consecrated bishop
by one of these, and afterwards received the Papal crown
from the hands of the said Louis, who caused himself to be
once more crowned Emperor by this his idol.
“The brutality of Louis the Bavarian in arrogating to
himself (adds Muratori) the authority of deposing a Pope
lawfully elected, who had never fallen into heresy as was
pretended: and to elect another, contrary to the rites and
canons of the Catholic Church, sickened all who had any
conscience or light of reason, and pleased only the
heretics and schismatics, both religious and secular, who
filled the court of the Bavarian, and by whose counsels he
was ruled. Monstrosity and impiety could not be better
declared and detested. And this was the step which
completed the ruin of his interests in Italy.”
The apparition of this German court in Rome, with its curious ceremonials following one upon another: the coronation in St. Peter’s, so soon to be annulled by its repetition at the hands of the puppet Pope whom Louis had himself created, in the vain hope that a crown bestowed by hands nominally consecrated would be more real than that given by those of Sciarra Colonna — makes the most wonderful episode in the turbulent story. In the same way Henry IV. was crowned again and again — first in his tent, afterwards by his false Pope in St. Peter’s, while Gregory VII. looked grimly on from St. Angelo, a besieged and helpless refugee, yet in the secret consciousness of all parties — the Emperor’s supporters as well as his own — the only real fountain of honour, the sole man living from whom that crown could be received with full sanction of law and right. Perhaps when all is said, and we have fully acknowledged the failure of all the greater claims of the Papacy, we read its importance in these scenes more than in the loftiest pretensions of Gregory or of Innocent. Il Bavaro felt to the bottom of his heart that he was no Emperor without the touch of those consecrated hands. A fine bravado of triumphant citizens delighting to imagine that Rome could still confer all honours as the mother city of the world, was well enough for the populace, though even for them the excommunicated bishops had to be brought in to lend a show of authenticity to the unjustifiable proceedings; but the uneasy Teuton himself could not be contented even by this, and it is to be supposed felt that even an anti-pope was better than nothing. It is tempting to inquire how Sciarra Colonna felt when the crown he had put on with such pride and triumph was placed again by the Neapolitan monk, false Pope among false cardinals, articles d’occasion, as the French say — on the head of the Bavarian. One cannot but feel that it must have been a humiliation for Colonna and for the city at this summit of vainglory and temporary power.
The rest of the story of Sciarra and his emperor is quickly told, so far as Rome is concerned. Louis of Bavaria left the city in August of the same year. He had entered Rome in January amid the acclamations of the populace: he left it seven months later amid the hisses and abusive cries of the same people, carrying with him his anti-pope and probably Sciarra, who at all events took flight, his day being over, and died shortly after. Next day Stefano della Colonna, the true head of the house, arrived in Rome with Bartoldo Orsini, and took possession in the name of Pope John, no doubt with equal applause from the crowd which so short a time before had witnessed breathless his deposition, and accepted the false Nicolas in his place. Such was popular government in those days. The legate so valiantly defeated by Sciarra, and driven out of the gates according to the chronicle, returned in state with eight hundred knights at his back.
We do not attempt to follow the history further than in those scenes which show how Rome lived, struggled, followed the impulse of its masters, and was flung from one side to the other at their pleasure, during this period of its history. The wonderful episode in that history which was about to open is better understood by the light of the events which roused Lo Popolo into wild excitement at one moment, and plunged them into disgust and discouragement the next.
The following scene, however, has nothing to do with tumults of arms. It is a mere vignette from the much illustrated story of the city. It relates the visit of what we should now call a Revivalist to Rome, a missionary friar, one of those startling preachers who abounded in the Middle Ages, and roused, as almost always in the history of human nature, tempests of short-lived penitence and reformation, with but little general effect even on the religious story of the time. Fra Venturino was a Dominican monk of Bergamo, who had already when he came to Rome the fame of a great preacher, and was attended by a multitude of his penitents, dressed in white with the sacred monogram I.H.S. on the red and white caps or hoods which they wore on their heads, and a dove with an olive branch on their breasts. They came chiefly from the north of Italy and were, according to the chronicle, honest and pious persons of good and gentle manners. They were well received in Florence, where many great families took them in, gave them good food, good beds, washed their feet, and showed them much charity. Then, with a still larger contingent of Florentines following his steps, the preacher came on to Rome.
“It was said in Rome that he was coming to convert the
Romans. When he arrived he was received in San Sisto. There
he preached to his own people, of whom there were many
orderly and good. In the evening they sang Lauds. They had
a standard of silk which was afterwards given to La Minerva
(Sta. Maria sopra Minerva). At the present day it may
still be seen there in the Chapel of Messer Latino. It was
of green silk, long and large. Upon it was painted the
figure of Sta. Maria, with angels on each side, playing
upon viols; and St. Dominic and St. Peter Martyr and other
prophets. Afterwards he preached in the Capitol, and all
Rome went to hear him. The Romans were very attentive to
hear him, quiet, and following carefully if he went wrong
in his bad Latin. Then he preached and said that they ought
to take off their shoes, for the place on which they stood
was holy ground. And he said that Rome was a place of much
holiness from the bodies of the saints who lay there, but
that the Romans were wicked people: at which the Romans
laughed. Then he asked a favour and a gift from the Romans.
Fra Venturino said, ‘Sirs, you are going to have one of
your holidays which costs much money. It is not either for
God or the saints: therefore you celebrate this idolatry
for the service of the Demon. Give the money to me. I will
spend it for God to men in need, who cannot provide for
themselves.’ Then the Romans began to mock at him, and to
say that he was mad: thus they said and that they would
stay no longer: and rising up went away leaving him alone.
Afterwards he preached in San Giovanni, but the Romans
would not hear him, and would have driven him away. He then
became angry and cursed them, and said that he had never
seen people so perverse. He appeared no more, but departed
secretly and went to Avignon, where the Pope forbade him to
preach.”
We may conclude these scraps of familiar contemporary information with a companion picture which does not give a reassuring view of the state of the Church in Rome. It is the story of a priest elected to a great place and dignity who sought the confirmation of his election from the Pope at Avignon.
“A monk of St. Paolo in Rome, Fra Monozello by name, who at
the death of the Abbot had been elected to fill his place,
appeared before Pope Benedict. This monk was a man who
delighted in society, running about everywhere, seeing the
dawn come in, playing the lute, a great musician and
singer. He spent his life in a whirl, at the court, at all
the weddings, and parties to the vineyards. So at least
said the Romans. How sad it must have been for Pope
Benedict to hear that a monk of his did nothing but sing
and dance. When this man was chosen for Abbot, he appeared
before the sanctity of the Pope and said, ‘Holy Father, I
have been elected to San Paolo in Rome.’ The Pope, who knew
the condition of all who came to him, said, ‘Can you sing?’
The Abbot-elect replied, ‘I can sing.’ The Pope, ‘I mean
songs’ (la cantilena). The Abbot-elect answered, ‘I know
concerted songs’ (il canzone sacro). The Pope asked
again, ‘Can you play instruments’ (sonare)? He answered,
‘I can.’ The Pope, ‘I ask can you play (tonare) the organ
and the lute?’ The other answered, ‘Too well.’ Then the
Pope changed his tone and said, ‘Do you think it is a
suitable thing for the Abbot of the venerable monastery of
San Paolo to be a buffoon? Go about your business.’”
Thus it would appear that, careless as they might be and full of other thoughts, the Popes in Avignon still kept a watchful eye upon the Church at Rome. These are but anecdotes with which the historian of Rienzi prepares his tragic story. They throw a little familiar light, the lanthorn of a bystander, upon the town, so great yet so petty, always clinging to the pretensions of a greatness which it could not forget, but wholly unworthy of that place in the world which its remote fathers of antiquity had won, and incapable even when a momentary power fell into its hands of using it, or of perceiving in the midst of its greedy rush at temporary advantage what its true interests were — insubordinate, reckless, unthinking, ready to rush to arms when the great bell rang from the Capitol a stuormo, without pausing to ask which side they were on, with the Guelfs one day and the Ghibellines the next, shouting for the Emperor, yet terror-stricken at the name of the Pope — obeying with surly reluctance their masters the barons, but as ready as a handful of tow to take flame, and always rebellious whatever might be the occasion. This is how the Roman Popolo of the fourteenth century appear through the eyes of the spectators of its strange ways. Fierce to fight, but completely without object except a local one for their fighting, ready to rebel but always disgusted when made to obey, entertaining a wonderful idea of their own claims by right of their classic descent and connection with the great names of antiquity, while on the other hand they allowed the noblest relics of those times to crumble into irremediable ruin.
The other Rome, the patrician side, with all its glitter and splendour of the picturesque, is on the surface a much finer picture. The romance of the time lay altogether with the noble houses which had grown up in mediæval Rome, sometimes seizing a dubious title from an ancient Roman potentate, but most often springing from some stronghold in the adjacent country or the mountains, races which had developed and grown upon highway robbery and the oppression of those weaker than themselves, yet always with a surface of chivalry which deceived the world. The family which was greatest and strongest is fortunately the one we know most about. The house of Colonna had the good luck to discover in his youth and extend a warm, if condescending, friendship to the poet Petrarch, who was on his side the most fortunate poet who has lived in modern ages among men. He was in the midst of everything that went on, to use our familiar phraseology, in his day: he was the friend and correspondent of every notable person from the Pope and the Emperor downward: only a poor ecclesiastic, but the best known and most celebrated man of his time. The very first of all his contemporaries to appreciate and divine what was in him was Giacomo Colonna, one of the sons of old Stefano, whom we have already seen in Rome. He was Bishop of Lombez in Gascony, and his elder brother Giovanni was a Cardinal. They were in the way of every preferment and advantage, as became the sons of so powerful a house, but no promotion they attained has done so much for them with posterity as their friendship with this smooth-faced young priest of Vaucluse, to whom they were the kindest patrons and most faithful friends.
Petrarch was but twenty-two, a student at Bologna when young Colonna, a boy himself, took, as we say, a fancy for him, “not knowing who I was or whence I came, and only by my dress perceiving that what he was I also was, a scholar.” It was in his old age that Petrarch gave to another friend a description of this early patron, younger apparently than himself, who opened to him the doors of that higher social life which were not always open to a poet, even in those days when the patronage of the great was everything. “I think there never was a man in the world greater than he or more gracious, more kind, more able, more wise, more good, more moderate in good fortune, more constant and strong against adversity,” he writes in the calm of his age, some forty years after the beginning of this friendship and long after the death of Giacomo Colonna. When the young bishop first went to his diocese Petrarch accompanied him. “Oh flying time, oh hurrying life!” he cries. “Forty-four years have passed since then, but never have I spent so happy a summer.” On his return from this visit the bishop made his friend acquainted with his brother Giovanni, the Cardinal, a man “good and innocent more than Cardinals are wont to be.” “And the same may be said,” Petrarch adds, “of the other brothers, and of the magnanimous Stefano, their father, of whom, as Crispus says of Carthage, it is better to be silent than to say little.” This is a description too good, perhaps, to be true of an entire family, especially of Roman nobles and ecclesiastics in the middle of the fourteenth century, between the disorderly and oppressed city of Rome, and the corrupt court of Avignon: but at least it shows the other point of view, the different aspect which the same man bears in different eyes: though Petrarch’s enthusiasm for his matchless friends is perhaps as much too exalted as the denunciations of the populace and the popular orator are excessive on the other side.
It was under this distinguished patronage that Petrarch received the great honour of his life, the laurel crown of the Altissimo Poeta, and furnished another splendid scene to the many which had taken place in Rome in the midst of all her troubles and distractions. The offer of this honour came to him at the same time from Paris and Rome, and it was to Cardinal Giovanni that he referred the question which he should accept: and he was surrounded by the Colonnas when he appeared at the Capitol to receive his crown. The Senator of the year was Orso, Conte d’Anquillara, who was the son-in-law of old Stefano Colonna, the husband of his daughter Agnes. The ceremony took place on Easter Sunday in the year 1341, the last day of Anquillara’s office, and so settled by him in order that he might himself have the privilege of placing the laurel on the poet’s head. Petrarch gives an account of the ceremony to his other patron King Robert of Naples, attributing this honour to the approbation and friendship of that monarch — which perhaps is a thing necessary when any personage so great as a king interests himself in the glory of a poet. “Rome and the deserted palace of the Capitol were adorned with unusual delight,” he says: “a small thing in itself one might say, but conspicuous by its novelty, and by the applause and pleasure of the Roman people, the custom of bestowing the laurel having not only been laid aside for many ages, but even forgotten, while the republic turned its thoughts to very different things — until now under thy auspices it was renewed in my person.” “On the Capitol of Rome,” the poet wrote to another correspondent, “with a great concourse of people and immense joy, that which the king in Naples had decreed for me was executed. Orso Count d’Anquillara, Senator, a person of the highest intelligence, decorated me with the laurel: all went better than could have been believed or hoped,” he adds, notwithstanding the absence of the King and of various great persons named — though among these Petrarch, with a policy and knowledge of the world which never failed him, does not name to his Neapolitan friends Cardinal Giovanni and Bishop Giacomo, the dearest of his companions, and his first and most faithful patrons, neither of whom were able to be present. Their family, however, evidently took the lead on this great occasion. Their brother Stefano pronounced an oration in honour of the laureate: he was crowned by their brother-in-law: and the great celebration culminated in a banquet in the Colonna palace, at which, no doubt, the father of all presided, with Colonnas young and old filling every corner. For they were a most abundant family — sons and grandsons, Stefanos and Jannis without end, young ones of all the united families, enough to fill almost a whole quarter of Rome themselves and their retainers. “Their houses extended from the square of San Marcello to the Santi Apostoli,” says Papencordt, the modern biographer of Rienzi. The ancient Mausoleum of Augustus, which has been put to so many uses, which was a theatre not very long ago, and is now, we believe a museum, was once the headquarters and stronghold of the house.
This ceremonial of the crowning of the poet was conducted with immense joy of the people, endless applause, a great concourse, and every splendour that was possible. So was the reception of Il Bavaro a few years before; so were the other strange scenes about to come. The populace was always ready to form a great concourse, to shout and applaud, notwithstanding its own often miserable condition, exposed to every outrage, and finding justice nowhere. But the reverse of the medal was not so attractive. Petrarch himself, departing from Rome with still the intoxicating applause of the city ringing in his ears, was scarcely outside the walls before he and his party fell into the hands of armed robbers. It would be too long to tell, he says, how he got free; but he was driven back to Rome, whence he set out again next day, “surrounded by a good escort of armed men.” The ladroni armati who stopped the way might, for all one knows, wear the badge of the Colonnas somewhere under their armour, or at least find refuge in some of their strongholds. Such were the manners of the time, and such was specially the condition of Rome. It gave the crown of fame to the poet, but could not secure him a safe passage for a mile outside its gates. It still put forth pretensions, as on this, so in more important cases, to exercise an authority over all the nations, by which right it had pleased the city to give Louis of Bavaria the imperial crown; but no citizen was safe unless he could protect himself with his sword, and justice and the redress of wrong were things unknown.