The hunts in the Roman Campagna were of old renown. The deer there was reputed very fleet, and the boar a particularly tough customer; the hounds belonged to those idolised and sagacious breeds which could not be bought at any price, and whose whelps were begged for by princesses and potentates with absolute servility.[215] Further, in default of military pomp, the glory of the chase, material as it was, seemed essential to the political interests of the papacy,—and consequently to the interests of religion,—with respect to certain eminent personages more accessible to such arguments than to those of theology; and it must not be forgotten that the Roman prelates, unfortunately for themselves, were politicians as well as devotees of art. While closely allying themselves with women, they had to reckon with men. The hunt organised by Paul II. for Borso d’Este in 1471 has remained justly celebrated in the annals of the church. It was therefore less a question of slaying animals than of saving souls, and it may be said that in this respect the chase conduced towards a spiritual end. The great Popes of the Renaissance, however, were somewhat lukewarm in cultivating it. Alexander VI., though an excellent horseman, was but an infrequent and inexpert huntsman. Julius II. went out into the rich vinelands rarely, if at all; for, born of a sea-faring stock, he preferred to cast his nets into the deep like St. Peter. Leo X. rode more, owing to threatenings of obesity; he hunted with application and brilliance, and with his habitual love of perfection, but without that quality which makes hunting an art, that indefinable something which hunters call the “sacred fire” or the “devil may care” spirit, and the friends of the Beautiful call love. He was a Florentine, and manifestly did not regard the hunter’s rôle as a fine one; he could not imagine that to spur a horse was to stimulate one’s ideas. To men of his stamp Nature was, so to speak, truly feminine; they would have liked to put her under glass. On the other hand, a number of prelates revived the chase with their enthusiasm; they portrayed it in their poetry; they brought to it all their gravity, urbanity, and decorum. When the ancient walls of pagan Rome or the limestone benches of the Coliseum were blushing under the first rays of dawn, or when the old triumphal arches were looking young again under the smile of the Sabine mountains, a brilliant procession set the pontifical flagstones ringing under their horses’ hoofs. Look at these great figures who are passing. Here is the proud Catherine Sforza; Tebaldeo, the poet skilful in following the forest tracks; Pontanus, the methodical huntsman, the taciturn philosopher; the pride of Venice, the sprightly Bembo, somewhat excited, for he wishes to “stick” the boar and cut off its head, and therewith to do honour to the Virgin of the woods, “in verses which will go down to posterity.” Here is the fair