“Sacra sub extrema, si forte requiritis,
hora
Cur Leo non potuit sumere: Vendiderat.”
The spirit of Luther had penetrated through the walls of Rome; and though all tongues but those of statues might be silenced, eyes were not blinded, nor could ears be made deaf. Nowhere was the need of reform so felt as at Rome, but nowhere was there so little hope for it; for the people stood in equal need of it with the Church, whose ministers had corrupted them, and whose rulers tyrannized over them. “Farewell, Rome!” said Pasquin.
“Roma, vale! Satis est vidisse.
Revertar
Quum leno, meretrix, scurra, cinaedus
ero.”
When Leo’s short-lived successor, the gloomy Fleming, Adrian VI., who was the author of the proposal to destroy Pasquin, despatched his nuncio to the diet of Nuremberg to oppose the progress of Luther, he told him in his instructions to “avow frankly that God has permitted this schism and this persecution on account of the sins of men, and, above all, of those of the priests and the prelates of the Church.” Pasquin could not have improved on these words. And when, twenty months after his elevation to the papacy, this hard old man died, the inscription—which he ordered to be put upon his tomb was in words fit to disarm the satirist:—“Here lies Adrian VI., who esteemed nothing in his life more unhappy than that he had been called to rule”: “Adrianus VI. hic situs est, qui nil sibi infelicius in vita quam quod imperaret duxit.”
During the pontificate of Clement vii., Rome suffered under calamities too terrible and too depressing to admit of the frequent display of the humor or the satire of Pasquin. The siege and sack of the city by the army of the Constable de Bourbon wrought too much misery to be set in verse or to be sharpened in epigram. One shrewd jest of this time has, indeed, been preserved. Clement was for months a prisoner in the Castle of Sant’ Angelo, unable to stir abroad. “Papa non potest errare” said Pasquin, or one of his friends, with a play on the double meaning of the last word, and a scoff at Papal pretension: “The Pope cannot err”: he is too well guarded to stray. But when the Pope died in 1534, Pasquin did not spare his memory. He had lately changed his physician, and taken one named Matteo Curzio or Curtius; and when his death took place, not without suspicion of malpractice, the satisfaction of the people was expressed by the appearance of a portrait of this new doctor, with the inscription, in words borrowed from the Vulgate, “Ecce agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi!” “Curtius has killed Clement,” said Pasquin. “Curtius, who has secured the public health, should be rewarded.”
“Curtis occidit Clementem.
Curtius auro
Donandus, per quem publica parta salus.”
Nor was this all. Pasquin declared, that, on occasion of Clement’s death, a bitter strife arose between Pluto and Saint Peter as to which should receive the Pope:—