It was Adrian VI. (not Alexander VI. as Murray has it), who proposed to throw it into the Tiber. Adrian VI. was a victim of pasquinades for two reasons,—the first, because born at Utrecht and tutor of Charles V., and afterwards viceroy in Spain, during all Charles’ absence in Germany Rome feared at his election that he would set up the Papal See in Spain; and it is not altogether impossible that the popular satires may have had some influence in deciding him on the contrary to repair immediately to Rome,—the second, because he was an energetic and unsparing reformer; and those who were touched by his measures were just those who could afford to pay the hire of the tongues of popular wags.
Nor was it only during his life that he was the subject of such criticisms. When his rigorous reign was suddenly brought to a close after he had worn the tiara but twenty months, on the door of his physician was posted this satire, ‘Liberatori Patriæ S.P.Q.R.’[3]; and his tomb in St. Peter’s, between that of Pius II. and Pius III., was disgraced with this epitaph: ‘Hic jacet impius inter Pios,’ till some years later, when his body was removed to a worthier monument in S. Maria del Anima. [↑]
[2] There is clearly a typographical error about one of these dates, which could doubtless be corrected by reference to ‘Notizie delle due famose statue di un fiume e di Patroclo dette volgarmente di Marforio e di Pasquino,’ by the same author, Rome, 1789, which I have not been able to see. Moroni, vi. 99, gives 1791 as the year in which it was bought by Duke Braschi, the nephew of Pius VI. while the Pope was in exile in France, and the completion by the rebuilding must, therefore, have been some years later.
The date of its discovery is told in the following inscription by the cardinal inhabiting Torre Orsini at the time, and who saved it from destruction:—
Oliverii Caraffa
Beneficio hic sum
Anno Salvati Mundi—MDI. [↑]
[3] Giovio; Vit. Hadr. VI. [↑]
CÈCINGÙLO.
‘There was one who would have done much better for you than Pasquino; that was Cècingùlo,[1] at least that’s the nickname people gave him. There was no end to the number of stories he could tell.
‘In days gone by,[2] he used to sit in Piazza Navona of an evening when people had left work and had time to listen, and he would pour them out by the hour. Now and then he stopped, and went round with his hat, and there were few who did not spare him a bajocco.’