d him. I loved his virtue, and I
admired his courage. I thought that Rome was about to resume, under him,
the empire she formerly held. Ah! had he continued as he began, he would
have been praised and admired by the world and by posterity. On entering
the city," Petrarch continues, "he inquired if I was there. I knew not
whether he hoped for succour from me, or what I could do to serve him.
In the process against him they accuse him of nothing criminal. They
cannot impute to him having joined with bad men. All that they charge
him with is an attempt to give freedom to the republic, and to make Rome
the centre of its government. And is this a crime worthy of the wheel or
the gibbet? A Roman citizen afflicted to see his country, which is by
right the mistress of the world, the slave of the vilest of men!"

Clement was glad to have Rienzo in his power, and ordered him into his
presence. Thither the Tribune came, not in the least disconcerted. He
denied the accusation of heresy, and insisted that his cause should be
re-examined with more equity. The Pope made him no reply, but imprisoned
him in a high tower, in which he was chained by the leg to the floor of
his apartment. In other respects he was treated mildly, allowed books to
read, and supplied with dishes from the Pope's kitchen.

Rienzo begged to be allowed an advocate to defend him; his request was
refused. This refusal enraged Petrarch, who wrote, according to De Sade
and others, on this occasion, that mysterious letter, which is found in
his "Epistles without a title." It is an appeal to the Romans in behalf
of their Tribune. I must confess that even the authority of De Sade does
not entirely eradicate from my mind a suspicion as to the spuriousness
of this inflammatory letter, from the consequences of which Petrarch
could hardly have escaped with impunity.

One of the circumstances that detained Petrarch at Avignon was the
illness of the Pope, which retarded his decision on several important
affairs. Clement VI. was fast approaching to his end, and Petrarch had
little hope of his convalescence, at least in the hands of doctors. A
message from the Pope produced an imprudent letter from the poet, in
which he says, "Holy father! I shudder at the account of your fever;
but, believe me, I am not a flatterer. I tremble to see your bed always
surrounded with physicians, who are never agreed, because it would be a
reproach to the second to think like the first. 'It is no