NO ONE WHO VISITS BOTH Rome and Athens at the present day can fail to be struck by one remarkable difference between the two famous cities, which stand for so much in the history of the world. While Athens is composed of a very old group of ruins and a brand-new town, which was rapidly made to order in Germany; while every trace of that mediæval splendour, which once distinguished the court of the Frank dukes, has vanished; in Rome, on the other hand, we have side by side the works of the kings, the memorials of the Republic, the monuments of the Empire, the remains of the Middle Ages, and the modern erections that have sprung up since 1870. Thus, while at Athens there is a sudden transition from buildings, which were constructed in the golden age of Periklês, to houses planned in the reigns of Otho and George, Rome furnishes us with an almost unbroken series of historical monuments from the time of Romulus down to that of Vittorio Emanuele III. The rise of the Papacy saved the Imperial city from falling in the Middle Ages to the condition of a decayed town, and, after it had ceased to be the capital of a vast Empire, it was still the centre of the religious world.
No period in the history of the Papacy, and, therefore, of that mediæval Rome, which it represents, is more important than the eleventh century, that same century which witnessed the transformation of our own history by the Norman conquest of England. Under Benedict IX., the Roman Church reached a level of degradation, almost as low as that to which it descended under the Borgias. The Vicar of Christ sold his high office to Gregory VI., in return for an assignment to his private uses of the Peter’s Pence that were paid by the English. The loss of the temporal power had accompanied this abandonment of spiritual aims. The pilgrim to the Holy City was lucky if he escaped the bands of robbers which infested the approaches to it. Within the walls, the churches were allowed to fall into ruin, and the priests to run riot in every kind of debauchery. Murder and outrage were of nightly occurrence in the streets, and the Roman nobles did not spare even the altar of St. Peter in their quest for plunder. They were, indeed, the arbiters of the Papacy, and made Popes at their will, just as in former days the prætorians had proclaimed emperors according as it suited their purpose. In short, about the middle of the eleventh century, Rome and its Church were in the lowest depths of humiliation, when suddenly there arose a man who raised the Papacy to a pinnacle which it had never occupied before, and made the name of Rome once more feared and respected by the great ones of the earth.
Hildebrand was the son, it is said, of a poor joiner of Soana, in the marshes of Tuscany, and belonged, as his name implies, to the Lombard stock, with which that district was largely peopled. Courtly genealogists endeavoured, in the usual fashion, to exalt his family when he had become famous, and it was pretended that he belonged to the noble family of the Aldobrandini. Marvellous tales are told about his infancy – how fire played around his head – as it had played around that of the youthful Servius Tullius, and how his first exercise in the alphabet was to put together a phrase emblematic of universal dominion. But the facts are, that he went as a lad to Rome, where his uncle was Abbot of the Monastery of Sta. Maria on the Aventine, that he became a monk, and entered the order of Cluny. But the mastermind of Hildebrand was not likely to be “cabined and confined” within the narrow limits of a monastic cloister. Small and insignificant in appearance, he possessed boundless ambition and the practical abilities to gratify it, for, if he despised the world, he wished to show his contempt by conquering it. While others composed from the safe recesses of some remote hermitage envenomed diatribes against the modern Gomorrha of the Seven Hills, he cast about for the means of reforming the fallen Papacy and restoring it to its historical functions. When Gregory VI. purchased that office from Benedict IX. in 1045, Hildebrand foresaw that, tainted as was the new Pope’s election with simony, he might yet be made an instrument for the benefit of the Church. He became his chaplain and confidential adviser, and when Henry III. of Germany deposed the Pope at the Council of Sutri, Hildebrand accompanied his master into exile at Cologne, and meditated there on the liberation of the Papacy from its position of dependence on the will of a German sovereign. Three years later, when the reforming Pope, Leo IX., entered Rome in the garb of an apostle, Hildebrand was one of his scanty retinue, and the real power behind him. From this moment he played, under six Popes, the part of an omnipotent minister, without whose consent nothing was done, until at last he not only governed in the name of others as minister, but also reigned as Pope himself.
Before his death, Leo IX. commended the fortunes of the Church to the care of his trusty adviser, and Hildebrand, not yet ripe for the supreme post, went to Germany to beg the Emperor to appoint another reforming German, who would continue the policy already begun under Leo. The Emperor consented, and Victor II., the new Pope, was Hildebrand’s nominee. Under him and his successor, Stephen IX., the improvement in the condition of the Church continued, but the next Pope, Benedict X., was a creature of the Roman nobility, which had recovered influence on the death of the German Emperor. Hildebrand was not the man to acquiesce in this state of things. He procured the election of an opposition Pope at a synod, held at Siena, and did all he could to facilitate the entry of his candidate into Rome. Supported by the Margrave of Tuscany this anti-Pope was installed in the Lateran as Nicholas II., and Hildebrand hastened to Campania to obtain the assistance of the Normans of the South for the prosecution of his plans. Nicholas, at his suggestion, summoned a council, which condemned his rival, Benedict, and strongly forbade the crime of simony and the marriage of priests. A still more famous decree emanated from this same council, and was the work of Hildebrand. At one time he had looked to Germany to take the lead in the reform of the Church; but he had seen that Teutonic popes were too German for the Italians, and too Italian for the Germans. It was therefore, now, his policy to render the election of the Pope independent of the German Court and the Roman nobility; to restore Rome, as the seat of God’s Vicegerent, to its historic position as the centre of the world. He accordingly persuaded the Council to raise the College of Cardinals to the dignity of an ecclesiastical senate, from which the Vicar of Christ should be elected, while the clergy and people of Rome were only to retain the shadowy right of confirming the election. A saving clause was inserted with the object of not offending the rights of the German sovereign, but a great step had been taken towards the complete liberty of the Papacy.
The Council of 1059 marks a great change in the history of that unique institution. It was then that it received the form which it has retained down to our own days. It was then that the new constitution of the Papal Office was formally, and finally established. But Hildebrand was sufficiently man of the world to know that decrees are of little use, unless there is force behind them. He accordingly resolved to make the Normans, who in the same century in which they conquered England, had made themselves masters of Southern Italy, the special defenders of the Papacy against the City of Rome and the German Empire. Robert Guiscard and Richard of Aversa the Norman robber-chiefs, who had won one Southern Italian town after another in the general confusion of that period, were induced by diplomatic handling, to regard their conquests as fiefs of the Holy See, which thus generously bestowed upon them principalities and duchies, without the least regard to the rights of the legitimate owners. But a great political point had been gained, if at the expense of ordinary morality. The Normans swore to maintain the Church in its possessions, and to help the Pope against his enemies, and they were easily the first soldiers of the age. No time was lost in carrying out this part of the bond. Nicholas and Hildebrand led a Norman army to Rome, forced the castle in which Benedict had sought refuge to surrender, and drove that Pope, robbed of all his dignities, into the Convent of Sta. Agnese. Hildebrand, now an Archdeacon, was the real ruler of the Church; and the papal schism was at an end; the Roman nobility was, for the moment, crushed. But the latter made common cause with the German Court against this new system of papal election, which threatened them both, and the City was henceforth divided for centuries into an Imperial and a papal party.
The death of Nicholas II., in 1061, brought the rival factions into speedy conflict. The German party in Rome begged the young king, Henry IV., to appoint a new head of the Church; Hildebrand boldly took up their challenge, and in conformity with the recent decree, assembled the Cardinals and obtained the election of a reforming bishop as Pope, under the title of Alexander II. The violence of the Normans procured the installation of Hildebrand’s candidate; but a new schism had begun, for the German party elected Honorius II. in Bâle, and thus the German Empire and the Roman Church, stood forth as combatants.
The combat was preceded by a pompous palaver in the ancient Circus Maximus, between the envoy of Honorius and the Roman nobles. The anti-Pope soon followed at the head of an army, and once more Rome witnessed a sanguinary conflict outside its gates. The literary men of the time compared the carnage to that in the civil war between Cæsar and Pompey; but even the horrors of that fratricidal struggle were surpassed, inasmuch as the rival leaders of the new conflict were not ambitious soldiers, but the high-priests of Christianity, who had grasped the sword in order to maintain their claims to be the representative of Him who preached the religion of peace. For the moment the rivals were induced to accept the intervention of the Margrave of Tuscany. Hildebrand gained a diplomatic victory in Germany, and his nominee, Alexander II., was acknowledged to be the only legitimate Pope. But the Roman nobles were not so easily disconcerted. They induced the deposed Honorius to re-appear before Rome, and installed him in the Castle of Sant’ Angelo. The civil war was renewed, and the monuments of the City were turned into so many coigns of vantage, from which the adherents of the one Pope hurled taunts and weapons on those of the other. Just as now, the Vatican and the Quirinal represent opposing parties, so then St. Peter’s and the Lateran were the headquarters of contending factions, where for a year hostile Popes cursed one another, and blessed their respective adherents. The language, with which the rivals besmirched one another’s character, cannot be reproduced without offending decency, but finally the curses of Honorius proved ineffectual. The Normans came to his opponent’s aid in Rome; Hildebrand again scored a diplomatic triumph in Germany, and at last, in 1064, Alexander II. became sole Pope in fact as well as in name. Hildebrand had managed to surmount all obstacles, and Romans and Germans had alike bent before his will. The Church hung on his lips, and a monkish admirer hailed him, in indifferent verses, as more than a Pope. Thanks to his energy and masterful character, Rome had once more become the centre of the religious world, whither bishops came to attend councils, and princes came to seek pardon for their sins. Just as in former days, Cnut, King of England, and Macbeth, King of Scotland, had made pilgrim ages to the Eternal City, so now the German Empress Agnes, mother of Henry IV., approached the chair of St. Peter, in the garb of a penitent, with a prayer-book in her hand, to beg for mercy and forgiveness.
Alexander II., died in 1073, and at last, Hildebrand, who had so long been the most powerful figure of the Church, became Pope under the name of Gregory VII. Few men have ever entered upon that office with greater ideas; fewer still have possessed greater practical ability for their realisation. Yet, when the crucial moment had come, and enthusiastic voices demanded his instant election, he is said to have had misgivings as to his capacity for the post which was now his. No one knew better than he the difficulties of the reformer, for he had been grappling with them for years. But, once elected Pope, he cast his misgivings behind him, and began to work out his ambitious programme of making the Papacy the head of a second Roman Empire. The Great Powers, as we should say in the political language of our own day, should, according to him, become the vassals of the Pope, who, as God’s Vicegerent, should be the highest authority on earth. Nor was Gregory VII. content with mere vague generalities. He claimed overlordship over Bohemia, Russia, and Hungary. He informed the Spaniards, that their country had ever been a fief of the Holy See, and he asserted rights over England, which William the Conqueror, in 1076, firmly refused to recognise. As self-constituted head of Europe, he conceived the audacious plan of first driving his old friends the Normans, as well as the Greeks and Sacarens, out of Italy, and then subjecting Constantiople to the Roman Church, and planting the Cross in Jerusalem. But his attempt to head a crusade was a failure, and even the smaller programme of reducing Southern Italy to a fief of the Church, met with the obstinate resistance of Robert Guiscard, though the rulers of Capus and Benevento were willing to take the oath of allegiance to him.
A more serviceable ally was the Countess Matilda of Tuscany, a woman of the same Lombard stock as the Pope, and of scarcely inferior ability. Her adhesion was all the more valuable, because the geographical position of Tuscany made it a strong barrier against German intervention from the north. Enemies and cynics have endeavoured to attribute the political alliance of Hildebrand and this active woman of twenty-eight to other than political reasons. But there seems to be no reason to doubt that the tie which united them was less than platonic. Like most great men, Gregory VII. doubtless had his weaknesses; but it is more charitable and also more probable to assume that he recognised in the Tuscan Countess a kindred spirit, who could, and would, assist him in his political schemes. At any rate, she was present at his first Council, where he renewed the reforming decrees of his predecessors, and ordered the deposition of all married and simoniacal priests. He could have no compromise with either of these twin evils, as he regarded them, and the natural result of these drastic reforms was to raise against him most violent opposition from all the interested parties. In Rome itself, hundreds of priests were living in a more or less married state, in open defiance of the decisions of synods, and their children occupied some of the most lucrative places at the disposition of the Church. Even in our own day similar conditions are not unknown within sight of the Vatican, while their existence in the Roman Catholic States of South America has lately been brought before the notice of Leo XIII. Still, though abuses of this kind still occupy the attention of the head of the Roman Church, there has been a marked improvement since the period of which we are writing. For in the time of Hildebrand even St. Peter’s itself, the Holy of Holies of the ecclesiastical world, was not safe from the orgies of men who masqueraded as Cardinals, and, in point of rapacity, were indeed excellent imitations of the genuine wearers of the purple. Like every reformer, Gregory VII. made swarms of enemies. Naturally, every deposed priest became a sworn foe of the new Pope, and found no difficulty in persuading his boon-companions that Hildebrand was worse than an atheist – a conscientious follower of the New Testament doctrine in the every-day business of life. The Roman nobles had, as we have seen, reasons of their own for disliking the man, who had made the Papacy independent of them, and the Triple Alliance against him was completed by the adhesion of the Archbishop of Ravenna, who had long been Hildebrand’s bitterest enemy.
But, great as was the storm aroused in Italy against the new policy, it was less serious than that excited in Germany. Henry IV. had, indeed, accepted the Pope’s behests for the moment; but his practice continued to be the same as before. He sold ecclesiastical benefices in the good old style, and the majority of German priests continued to be married. A second decree of the Pope, which forbade the investiture of priests by laymen, was a still more direct blow at Henry’s influence, and at that of all temporal magnates. This attempt to separate the Church from all State control was a bold stroke of policy, but it united a whole host of powerful foes against the Papacy, and lighted a fire, which blazed for the next half century almost without intermission.
The first act of violent opposition to the papal ordinances was the conspiracy of Cencius, a disappointed place-hunter, who made himself the leader of all the discontented at Rome, and was so much feared by the papal party, that they dared not execute a sentence of death, which had been passed upon him. Cencius wrote to Henry IV., promising to deliver the Pope into his hands; and, though it is not clear that he obtained any response, he at once set about to redeem his promise. He selected the Christmas Eve of 1075 for the date of his attempt; and, at the moment when the Pope was reading mass in the Church of Sta. Maria Maggiore, rushed up to the altar with a drawn sword in his hand, followed by a band of fellow-conspirators. Neither respect for the sacred building nor regard for the person of the Pope had the least weight with the savage leader of the revolution. Seizing Gregory by the hair, he dragged him out of the church, threw him across his horse and galloped off with his burden to his tower of safety Yet, even in this extremity, Gregory was not wholly abandoned. A noble lady and a man of lowly birth, typical of the influence which he exercised over all classes, followed him and ministered to his wants. The news of his abduction soon spread through the city, for, accustomed as Rome was to acts of violence, the kidnapping of a Pope was not an every-day occurrence. The alarm bells summoned the people to arms; the priests veiled the desecrated altars; the guards barred the gates; torchlight processions traversed the streets in quest of the lost Pontiff, for it was not yet known where he was, nor even if he was still alive. All was uncertainty and confusion. The days of the conspiracy of Catiline seemed to have returned, and in the morning the people thronged the Capitol to deliberate on what should be done. At last the news came, that Gregory was a prisoner in Cencius’ tower, that he was wounded and alone. In a moment the mob rushed to the prison of the Pope, and his gaoler, finding resistance useless, obtained pardon by entreaties or threats from his prisoner. The Pope kept his word, and saved Cencius from the hands of the infuriated people. Returning to Sta. Maria Maggiore, he completed the interrupted mass, while his captor, who had pledged himself to go as a pilgrim to Jerusalem, took to the more congenial occupation of ravaging the ecclesiastical domains in the Roman Campagna. Gregory came out of this fiery ordeal with heightened prestige, and the people recognised that the Pope was not only morally courageous, but physically brave.
A greater enemy than Cencius now stepped into the arena, to try conclusions with the Pope. The latter had reminded the youthful Henry IV. of the end of Saul, and threatened him with the curse of the Church, unless he repented of his sins in sackcloth and ashes. The King retaliated by summoning a Council at Worms, where his obedient German bishops declarecl the Pope to be deposed. The conflict between Church and State, Rome and Germany, had begun, and the letter, which Henry, “King, not by usurpation but by the holy will of God,” wrote to “ Hildebrand, not Pope, but false monk,” left no loophole for a compromise. The writer accused his enemy of having “trodden underfoot archbishops, bishops, and priests, like slaves”; of having “rebelled against the Royal power itself”; of having “gained the Papacy by cunning and treachery”; and of “arming subjects against their lords.” Possibly Henry sought to veil the illegality of his action by the violence of his language, while he cloaked his aggression in biblical quotations, after the manner of South African diplomacy. But Gregory was not the man to quail before strong words, even in the mouth of a king; and, when the Royal emissary stepped forth at the opening of a Lateran Council, and bade the Pope come down at once from his seat, he saved the rash envoy from the consequences of his act and at once replied by placing Henry beneath the ban of the Church. He deposed that monarch from his throne, released Henry’s subjects from their oath of allegiance, and justified rebellion against a sovereign, who had dared to raise his hand against the Vicar of Christ. Powerful as Henry had believed himself to be, he found that he was no match, in that superstitious age, for a monk, weak in physical force but strong in the might of his supernatural attributes. Princes, bishops, and people deserted the cause of their king at the bidding of the Pope; party spirit, always the curse of mediæval Germany, seized the opportunity to identify itself with religious duty; and Henry, alone and abandoned, bowed before the storm.
No monarch has ever undergone a more humiliating penance. Crossing the snows of Mont Cenis in the depth of winter, he entered Italy in the garb of a penitent, where his father had trodden at the head of an army. Rejecting the counsel the North Italians, who urged him to lead them to Rome, he wended his way past Reggio dell’ Emilia to the Castle of Canossa, behind the walls of which the Pope and the Countess Matilda were entrenched. At that spot the Papacy obtained the greatest of its triumphs over the power of sovereigns. For three weary days the stern Gregory kept his humbled rival waiting before the castle-gate in the shirt of a suppliant. At last Matilda interceded on his behalf; and the Pope released the kneeling and weeping king from the ban of the Church, but only on condition that he should relinquish his crown until such time as a Church Council had decided his fate, and that, in the event of his reinstatement, he would swear ever to obey the will of the Pope. The scene at Canossa in 1077 has, in our own time, been made the subject of the greatest modern statesman’s comment. Eight centuries after a German king had knelt humbly at the feet of a Pope, Prince Bismarck, in all the heat of the Kulturkampf, declared that never again would a German sovereign “go to Canossa,” with what results the sequel showed. But the apposite nature of the allusion showed that in 800 years Church and State were still foes, and the subsequent surrender of a statesman far stronger than Henry, to a Pope far weaker than Gregory, proved that the passing, of centuries had not much diminished the power of the Roman Church over the minds of men.
Gregory and the Papacy had triumphed; but their triumph was not long unquestioned. The candidature of Rudolph of Swabia, as a rival for the German crown, placed the Pope in a difficulty; for a large party in Germany clamoured for his recognition of that prince, and the Pope at last yielded, and once more placed Henry under the ban. But this second thunderbolt failed in its effect. Henry retorted by ordering the election of the Archbishop of Ravenna as Pope, and thus met Gregory with his own weapons. Rudolph’s death left the field open in Germany, and four years after his penance at Canossa, Henry marched at the head of an arm), upon Rome. His first and second attempts to capture the city failed, although he tried those golden arguments which Philip of Macedon had declared to be an unfailing means of success. A third attack at the end of the following year was a more serious affair. He occupied the Leonine city, and a tradition has preserved the name of Godfrey of Bouillon as the first man who set foot within it. St. Peter’s was the scene of a violent conflict between the opposing forces, and Henry, accompanied by his Pope, now styled Clement III., entered the great church in triumph, while Gregory fled to the adjoining Castle of Sant’ Angelo. The latter’s position seemed, indeed, hopeless. The three sieges had exhausted the resources of the city and the patience of its inhabitants. Even among his own adherents there were not wanting those who urged Gregory to make terms with the king, and save what remained of Rome from utter destruction. Henry professed himself willing to receive the Imperial diadem from his hands, if he would consent to peace. But Gregory would have no compromises. He vowed that he would recognise Henry as neither king nor Kaiser, and insisted that the terms accepted by the king when he was a penitent at Canossa must be observed when he was a conqueror at Rome. He was willing to call a council to decide the question, and this arrangement Henry accepted for the moment, but he speedily broke his word. Utterly weary of the struggle, the people now abandoned the cause of Gregory, and betrayed the city to his enemies. An assembly of Roman notables proclaimed his deposition from the Papacy, and recognised Clement III. as the lawful Vicar of Christ. Clement owed his dignity to Henry, and he repaid his benefactor by crowning him Emperor, in St. Peter’s, on Easter Sunday, 1084.
Still Gregory held out in the Castle of Sant’ Angelo, that memorable fortress, which down to 1870 played such a great part in the history of the Popes. He could see from the battlements the ruins of the Leonine City, the army of his enemies, the treachery of his former friends. One day he saw another and a more cheerful sight – the bands of Robert Guiscard marching across the Campagna to set him free. The Norman chief had made his peace with Gregory before the war began; but, at the moment when hostilities broke out, he was at Durazzo, on the Albanian coast, and it was only now, at the eleventh hour, that he came to the assistance of the beleaguered Pope, in order to save himself, for he surmised that his turn would come next. Henry knew that his forces would be no match for the Norman warriors; he assembled the Romans, told them that pressing business called him northward, and, after destroying the towers of the Capitol and the walls of the Leonine City, he retired, leaving the great object of his efforts unattained.
Three days later, Robert Guiscard arrived before the gates, which were shut in his face by the Romans, whom Henry had abandoned. The Normans climbed the gate of San Lorenzo, and soon the prisoner of the Castle of Sant’ Angelo was at liberty. Robert Guiscard could boast that he was one of the commanders who had taken the Eternal City; but he had no mercy for the treasures which it contained. The Romans rose against their conqueror, and he secured himself by setting fire to a part of their great inheritance. Churches were reduced to ashes, streets lay in ruin, corpses cumbered the ground; noble Romans were sold into slavery, or sent off as convicts to the mountains of Calabria. An ecclesiastical poet, who visited the city twenty-two years later, mourned over the destruction which the hordes of Guiscard had wrought, yet declared that, even in her ruin, there was “nothing like Rome.” It was, indeed, the severest trial that the Romans had undergone for centuries, and a long list of monuments can be drawn up, which perished in those terrible days. The Lateran Gate was henceforth known as “the burnt portal”; the Colosseum itself only just escaped. The Cælian and the Aventine then, for the first time, became desolate, and a somewhat later writer actually states that Guiscard wanted to destroy the whole city. Other towns adorned themselves with the spoils of Rome. The cathedrals of Pisa and Lucca were both decked with columns that had once stood in the Imperial capital; and thus, as usual, “the monks ended what the Goths began.” Gregory himself was shocked at the state in which the city was restored to him. He saw that he could no longer live there amid the ruins which his ambition had caused, and withdrew for ever from the scene of his conflicts and his triumphs. He knew that his life would not be safe for a moment after the retirement of his Norman allies, so he, too, retired to Salerno to foster plans of a complete restoration of his former power. But death cut short all his further schemes, and he died in exile in 1085. He was buried in Robert Guiscard’s new cathedral at Salerno, where his ashes still lie. “I have loved justice and hated iniquity,” he exclaimed with his dying breath; and, if ambition rather than a love of abstract justice had been his guiding motive, he was at least a great Pope and a great man. In the mediæval history of Rome he cannot fail to be one of the mightiest figures, and in that of the Papacy he is remembered as one of that small band of Popes who attained to genius. In the phrase of Gibbon he “may be adored, or detested, as the founder of the papal monarchy,” according to the opinions of his critics. He aimed at making Rome the capital of the world once more, at raising his own office to the dominion over all earthly principalities and powers. He left the Eternal City in ashes, and his successors have lost all temporal authority, and have had to concede much that he considered as essential. But he made a mark, not only on his own time, but on more than one future era, and his influence and example may be traced in subsequent conflicts between Church and State.
THE DEATH OF HILDEBRAND, FOLLOWED as it was by that of Robert Guiscard, weakened the influence of the Papacy, and the condition of the Roman Church was not such as to attract candidates for the chair of St. Peter. Desiderius, Abbot of Monte Cassino, the magnificent monastery between Rome and Naples, which still bears the marks of his influence, was elected Pope, against his will, under the title of Victor III., and the next two years witnessed the deplorable spectacle of a struggle for the possession of the Papal chair, between the adherents of this reluctant Pontiff and the opposition-Pope, Clement III., who was still supported by German influence. St. Peter’s was besieged by the Norman allies of Victor’s party, and their nominee installed there. But death removed the Pope from a position for which he was utterly unsuited, and, leaving the Eternal City once more in the hands of his rival, he expired at his beloved Monte Cassino, which he should never have left. In 1088, Otto, Bishop of Ostia, was chosen as his successor, with the name of Urban II. Urban was the first Frenchman ever made Pope, and is famous in European history as one of the chief instigators of the first Crusade. But his memorable speech at Clermont, which kindled such enthusiasm for that cause, and the deeds of the Crusaders, had merely an indirect influence on the fate of Rome. One of the incidental results of the first Crusade was to restore Rome to the control of the lawful Pope. The effects of that great movement upon the seat of the Papacy were only secondary. Though the Popes found a new source of income in the Crusading movement, and were able to consolidate their power, while other sovereigns became exhausted, the Romans, themselves, showed no enthusiasm for the liberation of Jerusalem, and their trade was injured by the diversion of interest to the East. But the Crusaders, on their way to Bari, found time to clear out of the Roman basilicas the barbarous bands of Christians who supported the anti-Pope. An eye-witness, who had taken the Cross to fight against the Paynim, has left on record his amazement at discovering the most famous Church of Christendom in the possession of armed miscreants, who stole the offerings of the pious from the altars, pelted the worshippers with stones from the beams of the roof, and threatened to murder every one who was a follower of Urban. It may have occurred to some of the Crusaders, that Rome was even more in need of reform than Jerusalem, and students of Eastern politics are reminded that even in the nineteenth century a Turkish guard was required to prevent hostile sects of Christians from tearing one another in pieces at the Holy Sepulchre. The warriors of the Cross, we are told, were horrified at what they saw in the capital of Christianity, and some called down the vengeance of God upon the wicked city. But the Pope had gained his point. Clement retired to Ravenna, and Urban entered the Castle of Sant’ Angelo, only to enjoy for one brief year the undivided possession of Rome.
But the nineteen years’ pontificate of Paschalis II., who succeeded him, was a period of misery for the city. The Papal schism, supported by the German party, still continued, even after the death of Clement, and the rebellious nobles of Rome gave the Pope almost constant trouble. Now, for the first time, we hear of the famous house of Colonna, whose origin, according to the courtly Petrarch, was to be found on the banks of the Rhine, and whose name and arms have been connected with almost every celebrated column from that of Trajan to those of Hercules. At the same moment, another noble family, that of the Corsi, dislodged from their fastness, amid the ruins of the Capitol, established themselves outside the gates, and thence plundered the houses within. During the absence of the Pope in France and Southern Italy, these ambitious adventurers raised a rebellion of the Sabine and Latin towns, and the head of the Church had to subdue the rising by force of arms. Such was the condition of Rome in the early years of the twelfth century.
Amidst so much misery, and such wanton destruction, the historians of the time could point to one remarkable ceremonial – the journey of Henry IV.’s successor, Henry V., from Germany to Rome in 1110-1, to be crowned Emperor. Humiliating as it was for Italy and the Papacy, the pompous pageantry, which the German sovereign displayed, yet lights up the dreary annals of the age. Three thousand knights were in his train; vassals of many languages, led by princes or bishops, followed their liege lord; scribes attended to report his doings for the benefit of those whom he had left at home, just as in our own day a Kaiser’s pilgrimage to Palestine is not complete without a “special correspondent.” A pact was made between the King and the Pope, which was to have established the peace between Church and State by means of mutual concessions, and the two took their places side by side on the purple throne at St. Peter’s. Then followed a scene to which scarcely a parallel can be found in the annals of the world. The text of this new Concordat was read aloud before the vast congregation of priests and nobles; the Pope was found to have prohibited the service of clerics in the army, and to have ordered the surrender of all crown property that they held to the Emperor, who, in return, was expected to relinquish the right of investiture. At this point Henry withdrew, under the pretext of consulting with the bishops, who declared the pact intolerable. The King demanded to be crowned as Emperor; the Pope refused to crown him. High words were banded to and fro, and a knight cried out, “What need is there for long speeches? My master insists on being crowned without more ado, like Louis and Charles before him!” Anxious Cardinals suggested that the coronation should take place at once, and the negotiations between Church and State be renewed on the morrow. But the bishops would hear no more about negotiations. Armed men surrounded the Pope, and he had scarcely concluded the mass, when a frightful tumult broke out. Seldom had St. Peter’s seen a more disgraceful spectacle, and the trembling Pontiff was thankful to escape at nightfall, with his retinue, to an adjacent house, where he remained a prisoner, while the church which he had just left was sacked and outraged. But two of his friends had escaped over the Tiber in disguise, and told the people what had occurred. The alarm bells were rung; the citizens rose as one man; every German, who was found by the mob, was cut down. As soon its it was light the Romans rushed to the rescue of their Pope, and Henry, barefooted and half-dressed, leapt on horseback to check the fury of their attack. Wounded, and lying on the ground, he owed his life to the devotion of one of his followers, who himself fell a victim to the disappointed vengeance of the rabble. It was with the utmost difficulty, that the German troops held their ground at last, and the Vicar of the Pope urged on the people to attack them again. Then Henry marched away, taking the Pope and sixteen Cardinals with him as prisoners, while his rough soldiers dragged a band of priests through the mire at their horses’ tails. This was his revenge for Canossa; thus Paschalis II. suffered for the triumph of Hildebrand. Not a single Christian Power raised a finger on behalf of the head of Christendom. For sixty-one weary days did Pope and Cardinals remain the German sovereign’s prisoners, until at last the Pope yielded to compulsion, and consented to grant the privilege of investiture to his captor, and crown him Emperor. The latter ceremony was hastily performed, and the newly-crowned Kaiser marched away from Rome, whither the Pope returned with the halo of a martyr. The people received him with boundless enthusiasm, but he read already in the faces of the clergy that he had another, and no less difficult, contest before him than that with Henry. The Cardinals, who had not shared his captivity, regarded him as a coward who had purchased his life and liberty at the expense of the Church. They demanded the excommunication of the Emperor and the withdrawal of the privilege granted to him, which they said was pravilegium non privilegium. Paschalis, in self-defence, summoned a council in the Lateran, which lost no time in declaring the Imperial privilege to be a direct violation of canon law, and so great was the stir made by the quarrel that Alexius Comnenus, the Greek Emperor, thought the moment favourable to advance his claims to the sovereignty of the Western world as well.
The last word had not, however, been said in the contest between Henry V. and the Pope. It chanced that there died about this time the prefect of the city – the chief municipal magistrate, who was elected from the noble Roman families, and owed a divided allegiance to both Pope and Emperor, though he more particularly, represented the latter – and, as successor to that important official, Paschalis desired to appoint a son of Pierleone, a member of a Jewish family, whose stronghold was close to the theatre of Marcellus. The Imperial faction in Rome stormed the place, and once more civil war raged in the streets. Scarcely had it subsided, when Henry entered the city in triumph, while the Pope fled to the South. A year later, in 1118, Paschalis died in the attempt to recover possession of Rome, and found an unwilling successor in Gelasius II. The conclave had barely concluded the formalities of his election, when a mob of armed Romans burst open the doors, the newly-chosen Pope was thrown on the ground, trodden underfoot, and dragged in chains to a dungeon of the Frangipani family. Then the violent scene from the life of Gregory VII., which was described in the last chapter, was repeated. The people rose and set the captive Pope at liberty, and riding on a white mule, he was escorted to the Lateran to receive the homage of the citizens. But the Frangipani summoned Henry again to Rome, to protest, by force, against the election of a Pope without his consent. Like Pius IX., seven centuries later, Gelasius escaped to Gaeta, while an anti-Pope was set up in Rome under the title of Gregory VIII. Even in distant England Gregory found recognition; and when, on Henry’s withdrawal from the Eternal City, the real Pope ventured to return, the anti-Pope remained in possession of power. Gelasius was able to describe his rival as “the beast of the Apocalypse,” but force compelled him to retire again from Rome. The Frangipani assaulted the Church in which he was celebrating mass, and some Roman matrons discovered him wandering about the outskirts of the city with a solitary follower – a sad spectacle of fallen greatness. Seeing that all was lost, he set out for France, and died at Cluny, in 1119, on the hard floor of a convent cell. His end recalls that of a much later Pope, Pius VI., dying with a single attendant at Valence, a victim of Bonaparte’s ambitious policy.
A change, however, came over the Church at this moment. A French Archbishop was chosen at Cluny as Pope under the name of Calixtus II., and his energy soon proved the excellence of his choice. He set himself at once to put an end to the wearisome quarrel over the right of investiture, which had been the curse alike of the Church and the city of Rome for the last half century. He entered the city with a pomp, which was, indeed, a contrast to the last entrance of his predecessor. A liberal use of money won him many supporters, and the anti- Pope was soon in his turn a fugitive in the old Etruscan fortress of Sutri. Calixtus pursued him thither, and the inhabitants surrendered their troublesome guest into his hands. Clad in a shaggy goat- skin, and mounted on a camel with his face to the tail, he who had posed as the head of the Church was dragged into Rome amidst showers of stones and blows, like some wild beast, and, after having afforded to the populace an opportunity of sport or revenge was sent to one prison after another, until at last death released him from his misery. Having finished with his rival, the anti-Pope, Calixtus next proceeded to deal with his enemy, the Emperor. Henry was is him self weary of the conflict, and a fresh Concordat was signed at Worms and confirmed at a Lateran Council, by which the question of investiture was settled by mutual concessions and peace at last made between the two greatest dignitaries of the Western world.
The repose thus obtained was employed by Calixtus in restoring some of the ravages which recent struggles had wrought in the fabric of the city. He forbade the use of churches as places of defence, prohibited the plundering of altars, and protected pilgrims. He began the restoration of the Lateran, built there a new chapel, dedicated to St. Nicholas of Bari, and erected a new audience chamber where paintings of himself and his six immediate predecessors, with their rival popes depicted as their footstools, served as a memorial of the great contest, which had just been closed. These figures have long since disappeared, and their originator did not live many years to contemplate them. Calixtus died in 1124, and in the following year Henry V. followed him to the tomb. The next Pope, Honorius II., is not remarkable in the history of Rome; but on his death in 1130 a phenomenon occurred, which is one of the most remarkable in the mediæval annals of the Papacy – the selection of a Jew as Pope.
At that time the two most influential Roman families were the Frangipani and the Pierleoni. The former derived their quaint name of “bread-breakers” from the legend that one of them had “broken bread” and distributed it to the people during a great famine; the latter were of Jewish origin, and had realised a large fortune by the customary pro fession of their race – that of lending money to needy Christians at a remunerative rate of interest. It was said that even Popes had not hesitated to borrow from these Rothschilds of the twelfth century, and Roman nobles of the purest blood did not disdain matrimonial alliances with them. One of the family was converted to Christianity, and Leo IX., at that time Pope, was graciously pleased to stand godfather to the convert, whose descendants ever afterwards bore his sponsor’s name. Their riches procured them in due course the most illustrious ancestry, and courtly genealogists three centuries later invented the legend that they were not only descendants of the Anicii, but ancestors of the Hapsburgs! We can hardly wonder under the circumstances that they aspired to the Papacy, and in Cardinal Pierleone a Pope was forthcoming under the name of Anacletus II. But on the same day the Frangipani had already procured the election of another Pontiff, Innocent II., and thus a new schism arose out of the jealousies of these noble families. Pierleone was the popular favourite, for he had wealth on his side, and did not spare it in order to win adherents. Even the Frangipani could not resist his golden arguments, and his rival was soon an exile in France. As for his fellow-Jews, their delight at his election was boundless; for they had, indeed, triumphed with Pierleone. But England, Germany, France, and the greater part of Italy acknowledged Innocent, and the prejudice against the Jewish race was too strong for Anacletus in countries which were too distant or too virtuous to be tempted by his money. He was bound to seek an ally elsewhere, and, as the price of his assistance, recognised the Norman Roger as King of Sicily and thus laid the foundation of a monarchy which lasted, in one form or another, down to the middle of the nineteenth century. But for the moment Roger could not aid him, and Lothaire, who had succeeded Henry V. on the German throne, escorted Innocent to Rome, and was there crowned Emperor in the Lateran. A second march into Italy cost Lothaire his life, but the Jewish Pope died soon afterwards, and Innocent, aided by the persuasive eloquence of St. Bernard, ruled alone at Rome. The King of Sicily alone remained hostile, and the Pope was unwise enough to attack him. Innocent was taken prisoner, and had to recognise Roger as Anacletus had done before him. One more humiliation was reserved for him. Infuriated at his annexation of Tivoli for his own benefit, his Romans rose against him, and he died in 1143 at a moment when his temporal power seemed to be slipping from his grasp. For the Roman people, inspired by the example of the Republics of Northern Italy even more than by the memory of their own classical past, in the next year restored the ancient Senate, which had long ceased to exist, and installed it on the Capitol as a token of the popular sovereignty.
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